BH1JWM 


JOet.-CHHNDl.eR  -HARRIS 


H3I 

>> 


CljanUler  Carrie* 


NIGHTS  WITH  UNCLE  REMUS.  Myths 
and  Legends  of  the  Old  Plantation.  Illus 
trated.  izmo,  $1.50;  paper,  50  cents. 

MINGO,  and  other  Sketches  in  Black  and 
White.  i6mo,  $1.25;  paper,  50  cents. 

BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER,  and  other 
Sketches  and  Stories.  i6mo,  $1.25. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


BALAAM   AND    HIS    MASTER 


AND   OTHER  SKETCHES  AND 
STORIES 


BY 


JOEL   CHANDLER   HARRIS 

AUTHOR  OF  "  UNCLE    REMUS,  HIS   SONGS  AND   HIS  SAYINGS,"   "  FREE 

JOE,"  "DADDY  JAKE,  THE  RUNAWAY,"  ETC 


^'^:&&$' 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

Camfcrib0e 
1891 


Copyright,  1891, 
BY  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  River  tide  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

BALAAM  AND  His  MASTER ? 

A  CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS 45 

ANANIAS 112 

WHERE'S  DUNCAN? 149 

MOM  Bi 17° 

THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE 192 


M32398 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 


WHAT  fantastic  tricks  are  played  by  fate 
or  circumstance!  Here  is  a  horrible  war 
that  shall  redeem  a  nation,  that  shall  restore 
civilization,  that  shall  establish  Christianity. 
Here  is  a  university  of  slavery  that  shall 
lead  the  savage  to  citizenship.  Here  is  a 
conflagration  that  shall  rebuild  a  city. 
Here  is  the  stroke  of  a  pen  that  shall  change 
the  destinies  of  many  peoples.  Here  is  the 
bundle  of  fagots  that  shall  light  the  fires  of 
liberty.  As  in  great  things,  so  in  small. 
Tragedy  drags  comedy  across  the  stage,  and 
hard  upon  the  heels  of  the  hero  tread  the 
heavy  villain  and  the  painted  clown. 

What  a  preface  to  write  before  the  name 
of  Billville  ! 

Years  ago,  when  one  of  the  ex- Virginian 
pioneers  who  had  settled  in  Wilkes  County, 
in  the  State  of  Georgia,  concluded  to  try  his 
fortune  farther  west,  he  found  himself,  after 
a  tedious  journey  of  a  dozen  days,  in  the 


8  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

midst  of  a'  little  settlement  in  middle  Geor 
gia;  -His;  wagons  and  his  negroes  were  at 
once  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  curious  but 
good-humored  men  and  a  swarm  of  tow- 
headed  children. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  he  asked  one  of 
the  group. 

"Bill  Jones." 

"  And  yours  ?  "  turning  to  another. 

"  Bill  Satterlee." 

The  group  was  not  a  large  one,  but  in  ad 
dition  to  Jones  and  Satterlee,  as  the  new 
comer  was  informed,  Bill  Ware,  Bill  Cosby, 
Bill  Pinkerton,  Bill  Pearson,  Bill  Johnson, 
Bill  Thurman,  Bill  Jessup,  and  Bill  Prior 
were  there  present,  and  ready  to  answer  to 
their  names.  In  short,  fate  or  circumstance 
had  played  one  of  its  fantastic  pranks  in  this 
isolated  community,  and  every  male  member 
of  the  settlement,  with  the  exception  of  La- 
ban  Davis,  who  was  small  and  puny-looking, 
bore  the  name  of  Bill. 

"  Well,"  said  the  pioneer,  who  was  not 
without  humor,  "  I  '11  pitch  my  tent  in  Bill- 
ville.  My  name  is  Bill  Cozart." 

This  is  how  Billville  got  its  name  —  a 
name  that  has  clung  to  it  through  thick  and 
thin.  A  justifiable  but  futile  attempt  was 


SALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  9 

made  during  the  war  to  change  the  name  of 
the  town  to  Panola,  but  it  is  still  called 
Billville,  much  to  the  disappointment  of 
those  citizens  who  have  drawn  both  pride 
and  prosperity  in  the  lottery  of  life. 

It  was  a  fortunate  day  for  Billville  when 
Mr.  William  Cozart,  almost  by  accident, 
planted  his  family  tree  in  the  soil  of  the  set 
tlement.  He  was  a  man  of  affairs,  and  at 
once  became  the  leading  citizen  of  the  place. 
His  energy  and  public  spirit,  which  had 
room  for  development  here,  appeared  to  be 
contagious.  He  bought  hundreds  of  acres 
of  land,  in  the  old  Virginia  fashion,  and 
made  for  himself  a  home  as  comfortable  as 
it  was  costly.  His  busy  and  unselfish  life 
was  an  example  for  his  neighbors  to  follow, 
and  when  he  died  the  memory  of  it  was  a 
precious  heritage  to  his  children. 

Meanwhile  Billville,  stirred  into  action 
by  his  influence,  grew  into  a  thrifty  village, 
and  then  into  a  flourishing  town ;  but 
through  all  the  changes  the  Cozarts  re 
mained  the  leading  family,  socially,  politi 
cally,  and  financially.  But  one  day  in  the 
thirties  Berrien  Cozart  was  born,  and  the 
wind  that  blew  aside  the  rich  lace  of  his 
cradle  must  have  been  an  ill  one,  for  the 


10  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

child  grew  up  to  be  a  thorn  in  the  side  of 
those  who  loved  him  best.  His  one  redeem 
ing  quality  was  his  extraordinary  beauty. 
This  has,  no  doubt,  been  exaggerated;  but 
there  are  still  living  in  Billville  many  men 
and  women  who  knew  him,  and  they  will 
tell  you  to-day  that  Berrien  Cozart  was  the 
handsomest  man  they  have  ever  seen  —  and 
some  of  them  have  visited  every  court  in 
Europe.  So  far  as  they  are  concerned,  the 
old  saying,  "  Handsome  is  that  handsome 
does,"  has  lost  its  force.  They  will  tell  you 
that  Berrien  Cozart  was  the  handsomest  man 
in  the  world  and  —  probably  the  worst. 

He  was  willful  and  wrongheaded  from  the 
first.  He  never,  even  as  a  child,  acknow 
ledged  any  authority  but  his  own  sweet 
will.  He  could  simulate  obedience  when 
ever  it  suited  his  purpose,  but  only  one 
person  in  the  world  had  any  real  influence 
over  him  —  a  negro  named  Balaam.  The 
day  Berrien  Cozart  was  born,  his  proud  and 
happy  father  called  to  a  likely  negro  lad 
who  was  playing  about  in  the  yard  — the 
day  was  Sunday  —  and  said  :  — 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  dunno  'zackly,  marster,  but  ole  Aunt 
Emmeline  she  know." 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  11 

"  Do  you  do  any  work  ?  " 

"  Yes,  suh  ;  I  totes  water,  an'  I  drives  de 
cows  ter  de  pastur',  an'  I  keeps  off  de  calfs, 
an'  I  runs  de  chickens  out  'n  de  gyardin." 

The  sprightly  and  intelligent  appearance 
of  the  lad  evidently  made  a  favorable  im 
pression  on  the  master,  for  he  beckoned  to 
him  and  said :  — 

"  Come  in  here ;  I  want  to  show  you 
something." 

The  negro  dropped  his  hat  on  the  ground 
and  followed  Mr.  Cozart,  who  led  the  way 
to  the  darkened  room  where  Berrien,  the 
baby,  was  having  his  first  experience  with 
existence.  He  lay  on  the  nurse's  lap,  with 
blinking  eyes  and  red  and  wrinkled  face, 
trying  to  find  his  mouth  with  his  fists.  The 
nurse,  black  as  she  was,  was  officious,  and 
when  she  saw  the  negro  boy  she  exclaimed : — 

"  Balaam,  w'at  you  doin'  in  yere  ?  Take 
yo'se'f  right  out!  Dis  ain't  no  place  fer 
you." 

"  Marster  says  so,"  said  Balaam,  senten- 
tiously. 

"  Balaam,"  said  Mr.  Cozart,  "  this  baby 
will  be  your  master.  I  want  you  to  look 
after  him  and  take  care  of  him." 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  Balaam,  regarding  his 


12  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

new  master  with  both  interest  and  curiosity. 
"  He  look  like  he  older  dan  w'at  he  is." 
With  that  Balaam  retreated  to  the  negro 
quarters,  where  he  had  a  strange  tale  to  tell 
the  other  children  about  the  new  white 
baby. 

Berrien  grew  and  thrived,  and  when  he 
was  a  year  old  Balaam  took  charge  of  him, 
and  the  two  soon  became  devoted  to  each 
other.  The  negro  would  take  the  child  on 
his  back  and  carry  him  from  one  end  of  the 
plantation  to  the  other,  and  Berrien  was 
never  happy  unless  Balaam  was  somewhere 
in  sight.  Once,  when  it  was  found  neces 
sary  to  correct  Balaam  with  a  switch  for 
some  boyish  offense,  his  young  master  fell 
on  the  floor  in  a  convulsion  of  rage  and 
grief.  This  manifestation  made  such  an 
impression  on  the  family  that  no  further 
attempt  was  ever  made  to  punish  Balaam ; 
and  so  the  two  grew  up  together  —  the 
young  master  with  a  temper  of  extreme  vio 
lence  and  an  obstinacy  that  had  no  bounds, 
and  the  negro  with  an  independence  and  a 
fearlessness  extremely  rare  among  slaves. 

It  was  observed  by  all,  and  was  a  cause 
of  special  wonder  among  the  negroes,  that, 
in  spite  of  Berrien  Cozart's  violent  temper, 


SALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  13 

he  never  turned  his  hand  against  Balaam, 
not  even  when  he  was  too  young  to  reason 
about  the  matter.  Sometimes,  when  he  was 
seen  throwing  stones  in  a  peculiarly  vicious 
way  at  a  tree,  or  at  the  chickens,  or  at 
some  of  the  other  children,  the  older  negroes 
would  laughingly  shake  their  heads  at  one 
another  and  say  that  the  child  was  mad  with 
Balaam. 

These  queer  relations  between  master  and 
slave  grew  stronger  as  the  two  grew  older. 
When  Berrien  was  ten  and  Balaam  twenty 
they  were  even  more  inseparable  than  they 
had  been  when  the  negro  was  trudging  about 
the  plantation  with  his  young  master  on  his 
back.  At  that  time  Balaam  was  not  al 
lowed  to  sleep  in  the  big  house ;  but  when 
Berrien  was  ten  he  had  a  room  to  himself, 
and  the  negro  slept  on  a  pallet  by  the  side 
of  the  bed. 

About  this  time  it  was  thought  necessary 
to  get  a  private  tutor  for  Berrien.  He  had 
a  great  knack  for  books  in  a  fitful  sort  of 
way,  but  somehow  the  tutor,  who  was  an  es 
timable  young  gentleman  from  Philadelphia, 
was  not  very  much  to  Berrien' s  taste.  For 
a  day  or  two  matters  went  along  smoothly 
enough,  but  it  was  not  long  before  Balaam, 


14  SALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

lying  on  the  floor  outside  the  door,  heard  a 
tremendous  racket  and  clatter  in  the  room. 
Looking  in,  he  saw  his  young  master  pelt 
ing  the  tutor  with  books  and  using  language 
that  was  far  from  polite.  Balaam  went  in, 
closing  the  door  carefully  behind  him,  and 
almost  immediately  the  tumult  ceased. 
Then  the  negro  appeared  leading  his  young 
master  by  the  arm.  They  went  downstairs 
and  out  on  the  lawn.  The  tutor,  perplexed 
and  astonished  by  the  fierce  temper  of  his 
pupil,  saw  the  two  from  the  window  and 
watched  them  curiously.  Berrien  finally 
stopped  and  leaned  against  a  tree.  The  ne 
gro,  with  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder, 
was  saying  something  unpleasant,  for  the 
tutor  observed  one  or  two  fierce  gestures  of 
protest.  But  these  soon  ceased,  and  pres 
ently  Berrien  walked  rapidly  back  to  the 
house,  followed  by  Balaam.  The  tutor 
heard  them  coming  up  the  stairway;  then 
the  door  opened,  and  his  pupil  entered  and 
apologized  for  his  rudeness. 

For  some  time  there  was  such  marked  im 
provement  in  Berrien's  behavior  that  his  tu 
tor  often  wondered  what  influence  the  negro 
had  brought  to  bear  on  his  young  master ; 
but  he  never  found  out.  In  fact,  he  soon 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  15 

forgot  all  about  the  matter,  for  the  improve 
ment  was  only  temporary.  The  youngster 
became  so  disagreeable  and  so  unmanageable 
that  the  tutor  was  glad  to  give  up  his  posi 
tion  at  the  end  of  the  year.  After  that 
Berrien  was  sent  to  the  Academy,  and  there 
he  made  considerable  progress,  for  he  was 
spurred  on  in  his  studies  by  the  example  of 
the  other  boys.  But  he  was  a  wild  youth, 
and  there  was  no  mischief,  no  matter  how 
malicious  it  might  be,  in  which  he  was  not 
the  leader.  As  his  character  unfolded  itself 
the  fact  became  more  and  more  manifest 
that  he  had  an  unsavory  career  before  him. 
Some  of  the  older  heads  predicted  that  he 
would  come  to  the  gallows,  and  there  was 
certainly  some  ground  for  these  gloomy  sug 
gestions,  for  never  before  had  the  quiet  com 
munity  of  Billville  given  development  to 
such  reckless  wickedness  as  that  which 
marked  the  daily  life  of  Berrien  Cozart  as 
he  grew  older.  Sensual,  cruel,  impetuous, 
and  implacable,  he  was  the  wonder  of  the 
mild-mannered  people  of  the  county,  arid  a 
terror  to  the  God-fearing.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  attractive  even  to  those  who  regarded 
him  as  the  imp  of  the  Evil  One,  and  many 
a  love-lorn  maiden  was  haunted  by  his  beau 
tiful  face  in  her  dreams. 


16  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

When  Berrien  was  eighteen  he  was  sent 
to  Franklin  College  at  Athens,  which  was 
supposed  to  divide  the  responsibility  of 
guardianship  with  a  student's  parents.  The 
atmosphere  the  young  man  found  there  in 
those  days  suited  him  admirably.  He  be 
came  the  leader  of  the  wildest  set  at  that 
venerable  institution,  and  proceeded  to  make 
a  name  for  himself  as  the  promoter  and  or 
ganizer  of  the  most  disreputable  escapades 
the  college  had  ever  known.  He  was  an 
aggressor  in  innumerable  broils,  he  fought 
a  duel  in  the  suburbs  of  Athens,  and  he 
ended  his  college  career  by  insulting  the 
chancellor  in  the  lecture-room.  He  was  ex 
pelled,  and  the  students  and  the  people  of 
Athens  breathed  freer  when  it  was  known 
that  he  had  gone  home  never  to  return. 

There  was  a  curious  scene  with  his  father 
when  the  wayward  youth  returned  to  Bill- 
ville  in  disgrace.  The  people  of  that  town 
had  received  some  inkling  of  the  sort  of 
education  the  young  man  was  getting  at 
college,  though  Mr.  Cozart  was  inclined  to 
look  somewhat  leniently  on  the  pranks  of 
son,  ascribing  them  to  the  hot  blood  of 
youth.  But  when  Berrien 's  creditors  be 
gan  to  send  in  their  accounts,  amounting  to 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTEK.  jj 

several  thousands  of  dollars,  he  realized  for 
the  first  time  that  the  hope  and  pride  of  his 
later  years  had  been  vain  delusions.  Upon 
the  heels  of  the  accounts  came  Berrien  him 
self,  handsomer  and  more  attractive  than 
ever.  Dissipation  was  not  one  of  his  vices, 
and  he  returned  with  the  bloom  of  youth  on 
his  cheek  and  the  glowing  fires  of  health  in 
his  sparkling  eyes.  He  told  the  story  of  his 
expulsion  with  an  air  as  gay  as  any  cavalier 
ever  assumed.  The  story  was  told  at  the 
table,  and  there  was  company  present.  But 
this  fact  was  ignored  by  Berrien 's  father. 
His  hand  shook  as  he  laid  down  his  knife 
and  fork. 

"  You  have  damaged  my  credit,"  he  said 
to  his  son  across  the  table  ;  "  you  have  dis 
graced  your  mother's  name  and  mine  ;  and 
now  you  have  the  impudence  to  make  a  joke 
of  it  at  my  table,  sir.  Let  me  not  see  your 
face  in  this  house  again  until  you  have  re 
turned  to  college  and  wiped  out  the  blot  you 
have  placed  on  your  name." 

"  As  you  please,  sir,"  said  Berrien.  His 
eyes  were  still  full  of  laughter,  but  some  of 
those  who  were  at  the  table  said  his  nether 
lip  trembled  a  little.  He  rose,  bowed,  and 
passed  out. 


18      BALAAM  AND  SIS  MASTER. 

Balaam  was  in  his  young  master's  room 
when  the  latter  went  in.  He  had  unpacked 
the  trunk  and  the  valise  and  was  placing  the 
things  in  a  clothes-press,  meanwhile  talking 
with  himself,  as  most  negroes  will  when  left 
to  themselves.  Berrien  entered,  humming 
the  tune  of  a  college  glee. 

"  I  'lowed  you  was  at  dinner,  Marse 
Berry,"  said  Balaam. 

"  I  have  finished,"  said  young  Cozart. 
"  Have  you  had  yours  ?  " 

"  Lord  !  no,  suh.  Hit  '11  be  'way  yander 
todes  night  'fo'  I  kin  git  dese  clo'es  straight 
ened  out." 

"  Well,"  said  the  young  man,  "  you  go 
and  get  your  dinner  as  soon  as  you  can. 
This  valise  must  be  repacked.  Before  the 
sun  goes  down  we  must  be  away  from  here." 

"  Good  Lord,  Marse  Berry !  I  ain't  said 
howdy  wid  none  er  de  folks  yit.  How 
come  we  got  ter  go  right  off?" 

"  You  can  stay,  if  you  choose,"  said  Ber 
rien.  "  I  reckon  you  'd  be  a  better  negro  if 
you  had  stayed  at  home  all  the  time.  Right 
now  you  ought  to  be  picking  your  five  hun 
dred  pounds  of  cotton  every  day." 

"Now,  you  know,  Marse  Berry,  dat  of 
you  er  gwine,  I  'm  gwine  too  —  you  know 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  19 

dat  p'intedly ;  but  you  come  in  on  me  so 
sudden-like  dat  you  sorter  git  me  flustrated." 

"  Well,"  said  Berrien,  seating  himself  on 
the  side  of  the  bed  and  running  his  fingers 
through  his  curling  hair,  "if  you  go  with 
me  this  time  you  will  be  taking  a  big  jump 
in  the  dark.  There 's  no  telling  where 
you  '11  land.  Pap  has  taken  the  studs,  and 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  leave  here  for 
good  and  all.  You  belong  to  me,  but  I  '11 
give  you  your  choice  ;  you  can  go  with  me, 
or  you  can  stay.  If  you  go,  I  '11  probably 
get  into  a  tight  place  and  sell  you ;  if  you 
stay,  Pap  will  make  a  pet  of  you  for  my 
sake." 

Regarding  this  as  a  very  good  offhand 
joke,  the  young  man  laughed  so  loud  that  the 
sound  of  it  penetrated  to  the  dining-room, 
and,  mellow  and  hearty  as  it  was,  it  struck 
strangely  on  the  ears  of  those  still  sitting  at 
the  table. 

"  I  knowed  in  reason  dat  dey  was  gwine 
to  be  a  rippit,"  said  Balaam ;  "  kaze  you 
know  how  you  been  gwine  on  up  yander, 
Marse  Berry.  I  tole  an'  tole  you  'bout  it, 
an'  I  dunno  whar  in  de  name  er  goodness 
you  'd  been  ef  I  had  n't  been  right  dar  fer 
ter  look  atter  you." 


20  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

"Yes,"  remarked  Berrien,  sarcastically, 
"  you  were  just  about  drunk  enough  half  the 
time  to  look  after  me  like  a  Dutch  uncle." 

Balaam  held  his  head  down  and  chuckled. 
"  Yes,  suh,"  he  said,  "  I  tuck  my  dram,  dey 
ain't  no  'sputin'  er  dat ;  yit  I  never  has  tuck 
so  much  dat  I  ain't  keep  my  eye  on  you. 
But 't  ain't  do  no  good :  you  des  went  right 
'long ;  an'  dar  was  ole  Mistiss,  which  she 
done  sick  in  bed,  an'  Miss  Sally  Carter, 
which  she  's  yo'  born  cousin  —  dar  dey  all 
was  a-specktin'  you  ter  head  de  whole  school 
gang.  An'  you  did  head  'em,  mon,  but  not 
in  de  books." 

"  My  fair  Cousin  Sarah  !  "  exclaimed  Ber 
rien  in  a  reminiscent  way. 

"Yes,  suh,"  said  Balaam  ;  uan'  dey  tells 
me  down  in  de  kitchen  dat  she  comin'  yere 
dis  ve'y  day." 

"  Then,"  said  the  young  man,  "  it  is  time 
for  me  to  be  going.  Get  your  dinner.  If 
I  am  to  have  your  company,  you  must  be 
ready  in  an  hour ;  if  you  want  to  stay,  go 
to  the  overseer  and  tell  him  to  put  you  to 
work." 

Laughing  good-naturedly,  Balaam  slipped 
out.  After  a  little  while  Berrien  Cozart 
went  down  the  stairway  and  into  the  room 


BALAAM  AND   HIS  MASTER.  21 

of  his  mother,  who  was  an  invalid.     He  sat 
at  her  bedside  and  talked  a  few  moments. 
Then  he  straightened  and  smoothed  her  pil 
lows,  stroked  her  gray  hair,  gazed  into  her 
gentle   eyes,  and  kissed  her  twice.     These 
things  the  poor  lady  remembered  long  after 
wards.     Straying  into  the  spacious   parlor, 
the  young   man  looked  around  on  the  fa 
miliar  furniture  and  the  walls  covered  with 
portraits.     Prominent  among  these  was  the 
beautiful   face  of   Sally  Carter.     The   red 
curtains  in  the  windows,  swaying  to  and  fro 
in  the  wind,  so  swiftly  changed  the  light  and 
shadow  that  the  fair  face  in  the  heavy  gilt 
frame  seemed  to  be  charged  with  life.     The 
lustrous  eyes  seemed  to  dance  and  the  saucy 
lips  to  smile.     Berrien  remembered  his  fair 
cousin   with   pleasure.     She   had   been   his 
playmate  when  he  was  younger,  and  the  im 
pression  she  made  on  him  had  been  a  last 
ing  one.     Beautiful  as  she  was,  there  was 
no   nonsense    about   her.      She   was    high- 
spirited   and    jolly,   and    the   young    man 
smiled  as   he  recalled  some  of   their   esca 
pades  together.     He  raised  his  hand  to  sa 
lute  the  portrait,  and  at  that  moment  a  peal 
of  merry  laughter  greeted  his  ears.     Turn 
ing,  he  saw  framed  in  the  doorway  the  rosy 


22      SALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

original  of  the  portrait.  Before  he  could 
recover  from  his  astonishment  the  young 
lady  had  seized  and  kissed  him.  Then  she 
held  him  off  at  arm's  length  and  looked  at 
him. 

"  Why,  how  handsome  you  have  grown ;  " 
she  cried.  "  Just  think  of  it !  I  expected 
to  meet  a  regular  border  ruffian.  My  dear 
boy,  you  have  no  idea  what  a  tremendous 
reputation  your  friends  have  given  you. 
Ann  Burney  —  you  remember  that  funny 
little  creature,  don't  you  ?  as  fat  as  a  butter- 
ball  —  Ann  told  me  the  other  day  that  you 
were  positively  the  terror  of  everybody 
around  Athens.  And  now  I  find  you  here 
kissing  your  fingers  at  my  portrait  on  the 
wall.  I  declare,  it  is  too  romantic  for  any 
thing!  After  this  I  know  you  will  never 
call  me  Sarah  Jane." 

"  You  have  taken  me  by  surprise,"  said 
Berrien,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  in  a  word. 
"  I  was  admiring  the  skill  of  the  artist.  The 
lace  there,  falling  against  the  velvet  bodice, 
is  neatly  done." 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  blushing ;  you  are  con 
fused  ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Carter.  "  You 
have  n't  even  told  me  you  are  glad  to  see 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  23 

"  There  is  no  need  to  tell  you  that,"  said 
Berrien.  "I  was  just  thinking,  when  you 
rushed  in  on  me,  how  good  and  kind  you 
always  were.  You  are  maturer  than  the 
portrait  there,  but  you  are  more  beautiful." 

Miss  Carter  bent  low  with  a  mock  cour 
tesy,  but  the  color  in  her  face  was  warmer 
as  she  exclaimed :  — 

"Oh,  how  nice  you  are!  The  portrait 
there  is  only  sixteen,  and  I  am  twenty-five. 
Just  think  of  that !  And  just  think  of  me 
at  that  age  —  what  a  tomboy  I  was  !  But  I 
must  run  and  tell  the  rest  of  the  folks 
howdy." 

Berrien  Cozart  walked  out  on  the  veranda, 
and  presently  he  was  joined  by  his  father. 
"  My  son,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  you 
will  need  money  for  your  traveling  expenses. 
Here  is  a  check  on  our  Augusta  factor ;  you 
can  have  it  cashed  in  Madison.  I  want  you 
to  return  to  college,  make  all  proper  apolo 
gies,  and  redeem  yourself." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Berrien,  taking 
the  check  and  stuffing  it  into  his  pocket. 
His  father  turned  to  go  indoors,  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  looked  at  Berrien,  who  was 
drumming  idly  on  one  of  the  pillars.  Then 
the  old  gentleman  sighed  and  went  in. 


24  SALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

Shortly  thereafter  Berrien  Cozart  and 
Balaam  were  journeying  away  from  Billville 
in  the  conveyance  that  had  brought"  them 
there. 

On  the  high  hill  beyond  the  "town 
branch  "  Balaam  leaned  out  of  the  hack  and 
looked  back  at  Billville.  The  town  ap 
peared  insignificant  enough ;  but  the  setting 
sun  imparted  a  rosy  glow  to  the  roof  of  the 
yellow  court-house  and  to  the  spire  of  the  old 
church.  Observing  the  purpose  of  the  ne 
gro,  Mr.  Cozart  smiled  cynically  and  flipped 
the  hot  ashes  of  his  cigar  into  Balaam's  ear. 
"As  you  are  telling  the  town  good-by," 
said  the  young  man,  "  I  '11  help  you  to  bow." 
"  Yasser! "  said  Balaam,  shaking  the  ashes 
from  his  ear;  "I  was  des  a-lookin'  back 
at  de  place.  Dat  sun  shine  red,  mon,  an' 
de  jail  look  like  she  de  bigges'  house  dar. 
She  stan'  out  mo'  bigger  dan  w'at  de  chu'ch 
do." 

It  may  be  that  this  statement  made  no 
impression  on  Berrien,  but  he  leaned  back 
in  his  seat  and  for  miles  chewed  the  end  of 
his  cigar  in  silence. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  chronicle  to 
follow  him  through  all  his  adventures  and 
escapades.  As  he  rode  away  from  Billville 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  25 

on  that  memorable  day  he  seemed  to  realize 
that  his  career  had  just  begun.     It  was  a 
career  to  which  he  had  served  a  long  and 
faithful  apprenticeship,  and  he  pursued  it  to 
the  end.     From   Madison  he  went  to  At 
lanta,  where  for  months  he  was  a  familiar, 
albeit  a   striking  figure.     There  were  few 
games  of  chance  in  which  he  was  not  an 
adept.     No  conjurer  was  so  adroit  with  the 
cards  or  the  dice  ;  he  handled  these  emblems 
of  fate  and  disaster  as  an  artist  handles  his 
tools.     And  luck  chose  him  as  her  favorite  ; 
he  prospered  to  such  a  degree  that  he  grew 
reckless  and  careless.     Whereupon  one  fine 
day  luck  turned  her  back  on  him,  and  he 
paraded  on  fine  afternoons  in  front  of  Lloyd's 
Hotel  a  penniless  man.     He  had  borrowed 
and  lost  until  he  could  borrow  no  longer. 

Balaam,  who  was  familiar  with  the  situa 
tion,  was  not  surprised  to  learn  that  his 
master  had  made  up  his  mind  to  sell  him. 

"  Well,  suh,"  said  Balaam,  brushing  his 
master's  coat  carefully,  "you  kin  sell  me, 
but  de  man  dat  buys  Balaam  will  git  a 
mighty  bad  bargain." 

"What  do  you  mean?"    exclaimed  Ber- 


rien. 


"  You  kin  sell  me,  suh,  but  I  ain't  gwine 
stay  wid  um." 


26  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

"  You  can't  help  yourself,"  said  the  mas 
ter. 

"I  got  legs,  Marse  Berry.  You  know 
dat  yo'se'f." 

"  Your  legs  will  do  you  no  good.  You  '11 
be  caught  if  you  go  back  home." 

"  I  ain't  gwine  dar,  suh.  I  'm  gwine  wid 
you.  I  hear  you  say  yistiddy  night  p'intedly 
dat  you  gwine  'way  f'om  dis  place,  an'  I  'm 
gwine  wid  you.  I  been  'long  wid  you  all 
de  time,  an'  ole  marster  done  tole  me  w'en 
you  was  baby  dat  I  got  ter  stay  wid  you." 

Something  in  this  view  seemed  to  strike 
Mr.  Cozart.  He  walked  up  and  down  the 
floor  a  few  minutes,  and  then  fell  to  laugh 
ing. 

"  By  George,  Balaam,  you  are  a  trump,  — 
a  royal  flush  in  spades.  It  will  be  a  famous 
joke." 

Thereupon  Berrien  Cozart  arranged  his 
cards,  so  to  speak,  for  a  more  hazardous 
game  than  any  he  had  ever  yet  played.  He 
went  with  Balaam  to  a  trader  who  was  an 
expert  in  the  slave  market,  and  who  knew 
its  ups  and  downs,  its  weak  points  and  its 
strong  points.  At  first  Berrien  was  dis 
posed  to  put  Balaam  on  the  block  and  have 
him  auctioned  off  to  the  highest  bidder ;  but 


BALAAM  AND  SIS  MASTER.  27 

the  trader  knew  the  negro,  and  had  already 
made  a  study  of  his  strong  points.  To  be 
perfectly  sure,  however,  he  thumped  Balaam 
on  the  chest,  listened  to  the  beating  of  his 
heart,  and  felt  of  his  muscles  in  quite  a  pro 
fessional  way. 

"  I  reckon  he  ain't  noways  vicious,"  said 
the  trader,  looking  at  Balaam's  smiling  face. 
"  I  have  never  seen  him  angry  or  sullen," 
said  Mr.  Cozart.  Other  questions  were 
asked,  and  finally  the  trader  jotted  down  this 
memorandum  in  his  note-book  :  — 

"  Buck  nigger,  Balaam ;  age  32 ;  6  feet 
1  inch;  sound  as  a  dollar;  see  Colonel 
Strother." 

Then  the  trader  made  an  appointment 
with  Berrien  for  the  next  day,  and  said  he 
thought  the  negro  could  be  disposed  off  at 
private  sale.  Such  was  the  fact,  for  when 
Berrien  went  back  the  next  day  the  trader 
met  him  with  an  offer  of  fifteen  hundred 
dollars  in  cash  for  Balaam. 

"  Make  it  eighteen,"  said  Mr.  Cozart. 
"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do,"  said 
the  trader,  closing  his  eyes  and  pursing  his 
mouth  in  a  business-like  way.  "  I  '11  give 
you  sixteen  fifty  —  no  more,  no  less.  Come, 
now,  that 's  fair.  Split  the  difference." 


28  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

Thereupon  Mr.  Cozart  said  it  was  a  bar- 
gain,  and  the  trader  paid  him  the  money 
down  after  the  necessary  papers  were  drawn 
up.  Balaam  seemed  to  be  perfectly  satisfied. 
All  he  wanted,  he  said,  was  to  have  a  mas 
ter  who  would  treat  him  well.  He  went 
with  Berrien  to  the  hotel  to  fetch  his  little 
belongings,  and  if  the  trader  had  searched 
him  when  he  returned  he  would  have  found 
strapped  around  his  body  a  belt  containing 
fifty  dollars  in  specie. 

Having  thus,  in  a  manner,  replenished  his 
empty  purse,  Mr.  Berrien  Cozart  made  haste 
to  change  his  field  of  operations.  To  his 
competitors  in  his  own  special  department 
of  industry  he  let  drop  the  hint  that  he  was 
going  to  Columbus,  and  thence  to  Mobile 
and  New  Orleans,  where  he  would  hang  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  racing  season,  picking 
up  such  crumbs  and  contributions  as  might 
naturally  fall  in  the  way  of  a  professional 
gentleman  who  kept  his  eyes  open  and  his 
fingers  nimble  enough  to  deal  himself  a  win 
ning  hand. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Mr.  Cozart  went  to 
Nashville,  and  he  had  not  been  gone  many 
days  before  Balaam  disappeared.  He  had 
been  missing  two  days  before  Colonel  Stroth- 


SALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  29 

er,  his  new  master,  took  any  decided  ac 
tion,  but  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day 
the  following  advertisement  appeared  among 
others  of  a  like  character  in  the  columns  of 
the  Atlanta  "  Intelligencer  "  :  — 

$100  reward  will  be  paid  for  the 
apprehension  of  my  negro  boy  Ba 
laam.  Thirty-odd  years  old,  but  ap 
peared  younger ;  tall,  pleasant-looking, 
quick-spoken,  and  polite.  Was  for- 
merly  the  property  of  the  Hon.  Wil 
liam  Cozart.  He  is  supposed  to  be  making  his 
way  to  his  old  home.  Was  well  dressed  when 
last  seen.  Milledgeville  "Recorder"  and  "Fed 
eral  Union  "  please  copy. 

BOZEMAN  STROTHER, 

Atlanta,  Georgia. 

(d.  &  w.  1  mo.) 

This  advertisement  duly  appeared  in  the 
Milledgeville  papers,  which  were  published 
not  far  from  Billville,  but  no  response  was 
ever  made ;  the  reward  was  never  claimed. 
Considering  the  strength  and  completeness 
of  the  patrol  system  of  that  day,  Balaam's 
adventure  was  a  risky  one  ;  but,  fortunately 
for  him,  a  wiser  head  than  his  had  planned 
his  flight  and  instructed  him  thoroughly  in 
the  part  he  was  to  play.  The  shrewdness  of 


30  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTEK. 

Berrien  Cozart  had  provided  against  all 
difficulties.  Balaam  left  Atlanta  at  night, 
but  he  did  not  go  as  a  fugitive.  He  was 
armed  with  a  "  pass  "  which  formally  set 
forth  to  all  to  whom  it  might  concern  that 
the  boy  David  had  express  permission  to 
join  his  master  in  Nashville,  and  this  "  pass  " 
bore  the  signature  of  Elmore  Avery,  a  gen 
tleman  who  existed  only  in  the  imagination 
of  Mr.  Berrien  Cozart.  Attached  thereto, 
also,  was  the  signature  seal  of  the  judge  of 
ordinary.  With  this  little  document  Ba 
laam  would  have  found  no  difficulty  whatever 
in  traveling.  The  people  he  met  would  have 
reasoned  that  the  negro  whose  master  trusted 
him  to  make  so  long  a  journey  alone  must 
be  an  uncommonly  faithful  one,  but  Balaam 
met  with  an  adventure  that  helped  him 
along  much  more  comfortably  than  the  pass 
could  have  helped  him.  It  is  best,  perhaps, 
to  tell  the  story  in  his  own  language,  as  he 
told  it  long  afterwards. 

"  I  won't  say  I  were  n't  skeered,"  said  Ba 
laam,  "  kaze  I  was ;  yit  I  were  n't  skeered 
'nough  fer  ter  go  slippin'  'longside  er  de 
fences  an'  'mongst  de  pine  thickets.  I  des 
kep'  right  in  de  big  road.  Atter  I  got  out 
er  town  a  little  piece,  I  tuck  off  my  shoes 


SALAAM  AND  HIS   MASTER.  31 

an'  tied  de  strings  tergedder  an'  slung  'em 
'cross  my  shoulder,  011  top  my  satchel,  an' 
den  I  sorter  mended  my  gait.  I  struck  up 
a  kind  er  dog-trot,  an'  by  de  time  day  come 
a  many  a  mile  lay  'twix'  me  an'  Atlanta. 
Little  atter  sun-up  I  hear  some  horses  trot- 
tin'  on  de  road  de  way  I  come,  an'  bimeby  a 
man  driv  up  in  a  double  buggy.  He  say, 
4  Hello,  boy !  Whar  you  gwine  ? '  I  pulled 
off  my  hat,  an'  say,  '  I  gwine  whar  my  mars- 
ter  is,  suh.'  Den  de  white  man  'low, 
4  Wat  he  name  ? '  Well,  suh,  when  de  man 
ax  me  dat,  hit  come  over  me  like  a  big 
streak  er  de  chill  an'  fever  dat  I  done  clean 
fergit  de  name  what  Marse  Berry  choosen 
ter  be  call  by.  So  I  des  runned  my  han' 
und'  de  lindin'  er  my  hat  an'  pulled  out  de 
pass,  an'  say,  4  Boss,  dis  piece  er  paper  kin 
talk  lots  better  dan  I  kin.' 

"  De  man  look  at  me  right  hard,  an'  den 
he  tuck  de  pass  an'  read  it  out  loud.  Well, 
suh,  w'en  he  come  ter  de  name  I  des  grabbed 
holt  un  it  wid  my  min',  an'  I  ain't  never 
turned  it  loose  tell  yit.  De  man  was  drivin' 
long  slow,  an'  I  was  walkin'  by  de  buggy. 
He  helt  de  pass  in  his  han's  some  little  time, 
den  he  look  at  me  an'  scratch  his  head.  At 
ter  a  while  he  'low  :  '  You  got  a  mighty  long 


32  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

journey  befo'  you.  Kin  you  drive  ?  Ef  you 
kin,  put  on  yo'  shoes  an'  mount  up  here  an' 
take  dese  lines.' 

"  Well,  suh,  I  wuz  sorter  glad,  an'  yit  I 
wuz  sorter  skittish,  but  I  tol'  de  white  man 
thankydo,  an'  le'pt  up  in  dat  buggy  like  I 
was  de  gladdes'  nigger  in  de  worl'.  De  man 
he  keep  on  lookin'  at  me,  an'  bimeby  he 
say,  '  I  tuck  a  notion  when  I  fust  see  you 
dat  you  was  de  boy  w'at  Cozart  had  in  At 
lanta.'  Mon !  you  could  er  knocked  me 
over  wid  a  feather,  I  was  dat  weak ;  but  I 
bu'st  out  laughin'  an'  'low, '  Lord,  boss  !  ef  I 
wa'  n't  no  better  lookin'  dan  dat  ar  Cozart 
nigger  I  'd  quit  bein'  a  nigger  an'  take  up 
wid  de  monkey  tribe.'  De  man  say,  '  I  had 
de  idee  dat  de  Cozart  nigger  was  a  mighty 
likely  boy.  What  was  his  name  ?  Balaam  ? ' 
I  was  so  skeered  it  fair  make  me  sick  at  de 
stomach,  yit  I  talk  right  out.  I  'low, 
4  Dey  call  'im  Balaam,  an'  dey  have  ter 
whale  'im.'  De  man  he  laugh,  '  He  got  a 
great  big  scyar  on  de  side  er  his  neck  now 
whar  souiebody  hit  'im  a  diff,  an'  he  lay 
roun'  dem  hotels  an'  drink  dram  all  night 
long.'  De  man  look  sideways  at  my  neck. 
1  Dat  nigger  got  so  bad  dat  his  marster  had 
ter  sell  'im,  an'  dey  tells  me,  suh,  dat  de  man 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  33 

w'at  buy  'im  ain'  no  mo'  dan  paid  de  money 
fer  'im  dan  he  have  ter  take  'im  down  and 
strop  'im.' 

"  Well,  suh,  de  man  look  at  me  an  laugh 
so  funny  dat  it  make  my  ve'y  limbs  ache. 
Yes,  suh.  My  heart  hit  up  'g'inst  my  ribs 
des  like  a  flutter-mill ;  an'  I  wuz  so  skeered 
it  make  my  tongue  run  slicker  dan  sin.  He 
ax  me  mo'  questions  dan  I  could  answer  now, 
but  I  made  answer  den  des  like  snappin'  my 
fingers.  W'at  make  me  de  mo'  skeered  was 
de  way  dat  ar  white  man  done.  He  'd  look 
at  me  an'  laugh,  an'  de  plumper  I  gin  'im  de 
answer  de  mo'  he  'd  laugh.  I  say  ter  my- 
se'f,  I  did  :  '  Balaam,  you  Y  a  goner,  dat 
w'at  you  is.  De  man  know  you,  an'  de  fust 
calaboose  he  come  ter  he  gwine  slap  you  in 
dar.'  I  had  a  mighty  good  notion  ter  jump 
out  er  dat  buggy  an'  make  a  break  fer  de 
woods,  but  stidder  dat  I  sot  right  whar  I 
wuz,  kaze  I  knowed  in  reason  dat  ef  de  man 
want  me  right  bad  .an'  I  wuz  ter  break  an' 
run  he  'd  fetch  me  down  wid  a  pistol. 

"  Well,  suh,  dat  man  joke  an'  laugh  de 
whole  blessed  mornin,'  an'  den  bimeby  we 
drove  in  a  town  not  much  bigger  dan  Biv- 
vle"  (which  was  Balaam's  pet  name  for 
Billville),  "  an'  dar  de  white  man  say  we  'd 


34  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

stop  fer  dinner.  He  ain't  say  de  word  too 
soon  fer  me,  mon,  kaze  I  was  so  hongry  an' 
tired  it  make  my  head  swim.  We  driv  up 
ter  tavern,  we  did,  an'  de  folks  dar  dey  hol 
ler,  '  Howdy,  Judge,'  an'  de  white  man  he 
holler  '  Howdy  '  back,  an'  den  he  tol'  me 
ter  take  de  horses  an'  buggy  down  ter  de 
liberty  stable  an'  have  'em  fed,  an'  den 
come  back  an'  git  my  dinner.  Dat  wuz 
mighty  good  news ;  but  whilst  I  wuz  eatin' 
my  dinner  I  hear  dat  white  man  laughin', 
an'  it  come  over  me  dat  he  know  who  I  wuz 
an'  dat  he  wuz  gwine  ter  gi'  me  up  ;  yit  dat 
ain't  hender  my  appetite,  an'  I  des  sot  dar 
an'  stuff  myse'f  tell  I  des  make  de  yuther 
niggers  open  der  eyes.  An'  den,  when  I 
git  my  belly  full,  I  sot  in  de  sun  an'  went 
right  fast  ter  sleep.  I  'spec'  I  tuck  a  right 
smart  nap,  kaze  when  some  un  hollered  at 
me  an'  woke  me  up  de  sun  wuz  gwine  down 
de  hill  right  smartly.  I  jumped  up  on  my 
feet,  I  did,  an'  I  say,  c  Who  dat  callin'  me  ? ' 
Somebody  'low,  'Yo'  marster  want  you.' 
Den  I  bawl  out,  '  Is  Marse  Berry  come  ? ' 
De  niggers  all  laugh,  an'  one  un  'em  say, 
'  Dat  nigger  man  dreamin',  mon.  He  ain't 
woke  good  yit.' 

"  By  dat  time  I  done  come  ter  my  senses, 


SALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  35 

an'  den  I  ax  dem  wharbouts  marster  is. 
Bimeby,  when  I  done  foun'  de  white  man 
w'at  bring  me  in  his  buggy,  he  look  at  me 
sorter  funny  an'  say,  '  You  know  whar  you 
lef '  my  buggy  :  well,  you  go  down  an'  raise 
up  de  seat  an'  fetch  me  de  little  box  you  '11 
fin'  in  dar.  Wrop  it  up  in  de  buggy  rug 
an'  fetch  it  an'  put  it  on  de  table  dar.'  Well, 
suh,  I  went  an'  got  dat  box,  an'  time  I  put 
my  han'  on  it  I  knowed  des  'zactly  w'at  wuz 
on  de  inside  er  it.  I  done  seed  too  many 
er  'em.  It  wuz  under  lock  an'  key,  but  I 
knowed  it  wuz  a  farrar  box  like  dem  w'at 
Marse  Berry  done  his  gamblin'  wid.  By  de 
time  I  got  back  ter  de  room  in  de  tavern  de 
white  man  done  had  de  table  kivered  wid  a 
piece  er  doff  w'at  he  got  out  '11  his  satchel. 
He  tuck  de  box,  onlocked  it,  rattled  de  chips 
in  his  han',  an'  shuffled  de  kyards.  Den  he 
look  at  me  an'  laugh.  He  was  de  quarest 
white  man  dat  ever  I  laid  eyes  on. 

"  Atter  while  I  ax  'im  ef  I  had  n't  better 
be  gitten'  'long  todes  de  eend  er  my  journey. 
He  'low  :  '  Lord,  no !  I  want  you  ter  set 
round  yere  atter  supper  an'  gi'  me  luck. 
You  ain't  losin'  no  time,  kaze  I  'm  a-gwine 
plumb  to  Chattanoogy,  an'  ef  you  '11  be  ez 
spry  ez  you  kin  be  I  '11  take  you  'long  wid 


36  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

me.'  De  ups  an'  odds  er  it  was  dat  I  stayed 
wid  de  man.  De  folks  named  'im  Judge,  an' 
he  was  a  judge,  mon.  'Long  'bout  nine  dat 
night  he  come  ter  his  room,  whar  I  was  wait- 
in'  fer  'im,  an'  soon  atter  dat  de  young  gen- 
tlemens  'bout  town  'gun  ter  drap  in,  an' 
't  wa'n't  long  'fo'  de  game  got  started. 
Look  like  de  man  ain't  wanter  play,  but  de 
yuthers  dey  kep'  on  coaxin',  an'  presently 
he  fotch  out  de  box  an'  opened  up.  Well, 
sah,  I  done  seed  lots  er  gamblin'  fust  an' 
last,  but  dat  white  man  beat  my  time.  Dey 
played  poker,  stidder  farrar,  an'  it  look  like 
ter  me  dat  de  man  done  got  de  kyards 
trained.  He  dealt  'em  'boveboard,  an'  dey 
des  come  in  his  han'  'zackly  like  he  want  'em 
ter  come.  Ef  he  had  any  tricks  like  w'at 
Marse  Berry  played  on  folks,  dey  was  too 
slick  fer  my  eye,  yit  he  des  beated  dem 
yuther  mens  scand'lous.  It  was  des  like  one 
er  dese  yere  great  big  river  cats  ketchin' 
minners. 

"  Atter  dey  been  playin'  some  little  time,  de 
white  man  what  brung  me  dar  'low :  '  Boy. 
you  better  go  git  some  sleep.  We  '11  start 
soon  in  de  mornin'.'  But  I  say,  'No,  suh ; 
I  '11  des  set  in  de  cornder  here  an'  nod,  an' 
I  'li  be  close  by  ef  so  be  you  want  me.'  I 


BALAAM  AND   HIS  MASTER.  37 

sot  dar,  I  did,  an'  I  had  a  good  chance  ter 
sleep,  kaze,  bless  yo'  heart !  dem  mens  ain't 
make  much  fuss.  Dey  des  grip  der  kyards 
an'  sorter  hoi'  der  bref.  Sometimes  one 
un  'em  would  break  out  an'  cuss  a  word  er 
two,  but  inginer'lly  dey  'd  plank  up  der 
scads  an'  lose  'em  des  like  dey  wuz  usen  ter 
it.  De  white  man  w'at  dey  call  Judge  he 
des  wiped  'em  up,  an'  at  de  een'  he  wuz  des 
ez  fresh  ez  he  wuz  at  de  start.  It  wuz  so 
nigh  day  when  de  game  broke  up  dat  Marse 
Judge  'lowed  dat  it  was  too  late  fer  supper 
an'  not  quite  soon  'nough  fer  breakfas',  an' 
den  he  say  he  wuz  gwine  ter  take  a  walk 
an'  git  some  a'r. 

"  Well,  suh,  it  wuz  dat  away  all  de  time  I 
wuz  wid  dat  white  man  —  laugh  in'  an'  jokin' 
all  day,  an'  gamblin'  all  night  long.  How 
an'  when  he  got  sleep  I  '11  never  tell  you, 
kaze  he  wuz  wide  awake  eve'y  time  I  seed 
'im.  It  went  on  dis  away  plumb  till  we  got 
ter  de  Tennessy  Eiver,  dar  whar  Chatty- 
noogy  is.  Atter  we  sorter  rested,  de  white 
man  tuck  me  'cross  de  river,  an'  we  druv  on 
ter  whar  de  stage  changes  bosses.  Dar  we 
stopped,  an'  whilst  I  wuz  waitin'  fer  de 
stage  de  white  man  'low,  '  Balaam !  '  He 
kotch  me  so  quick,  dat  I  jump  des  like  I  'd 


38  SALAAM  AND   HIS  MASTER. 

been  shot,  an'  hollered  out,  '  Suh  ! '  Den 
he  laugh  sorter  funny,  an'  say  :  '  Don't  look 
skeered,  Balaam ;  I  knowed  you  f um  de  off- 
start.  You  Y  a  mighty  good  boy,  but  yo' 
marster  is  a  borned  rascal.  I  'm  gwine  send 
you  whar  you  say  he  is,  an'  I  want  you  ter 
tell 'im  dis  fum  me — dat  dough  he  tried 
ter  rob  me,  yit  fer  de  sake  er  his  Cousin 
Sally,  I  he'ped  you  ter  go  whar  he  is.' 

"  Den  de  man  got  in  his  buggy  an'  driv 
back,  an'  dat  de  las'  time  I  ever  laid  eyes 
on  'im.  When  de  stage  come  'long  I  got 
up  wid  de  driver,  an'  't  wa'n't  long  'fo'  I 
wuz  wid  Marse  Berry,  an'  I  ain't  no  sooner 
seed  'im  dan  I  knowed  he  was  gwine  wrong 
wuss  and  wuss :  not  but  w'at  he  was  glad 
kaze  I  come,  but  it  look  like  his  face  done 
got  mo'  harder.  Well,  suh,  it  was  des  dat 
away.  I  ain't  gwine  ter  tell  you  all  w'at  he 
done  an'  how  he  done  it,  kaze  he  was  my 
own  marster,  an'  he  never  hit  me  a  lick 
amiss,  'ceppin'  it  was  when  he  was  a  little 
boy.  I  ain't  gwine  ter  tell  you  whar  we 
went  an'  how  we  got  dar,  kaze  dey  done 
been  too  much  talk  now.  But  we  drapped 
down  inter  Alabam',  an'  den  inter  Massa- 
sip',  an'  den  inter  Arkansaw,  an'  back  ag'in 
inter  Massasip'  ;  an'  one  night  whilst  we 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  39 

wuz  on  one  er  dem  big  river  boats,  Marse 
Berry  he  got  inter  a  mighty  big  row.  Dey 
wuz  playin'  kyards  fer  de  bigges'  kind  er 
stakes,  an'  fust  news  I  know  de  lie  was 
passed,  an'  den  de  whole  gang  made  fer 
Marse  Berry.  Dey  whipped  out  der  knives 
an'  der  pistols,  an'  it  look  like  it  wuz  gwine 
ter  be  all  night  wid  Marse  Berry.  Well,  suh, 
I  got  so  skeered  dat  I  picked  up  a  cheer  an' 
smashed  de  nighest  man,  and  by  dat  time 
Marse  Berry  had  shot  one  ;  an',  suh,  we  des 
cleaned  'em  out.  Den  Marse  Berry  made  a 
dash  fer  de  low'-mos'  deck,  an'  I  dashed  at- 
ter  'im.  Den  I  hear  sumpin'  go  ker-slosh 
in  de  water,  an'  I  'lowed  it  was  Marse  Berry, 
an'  in  I  splunged  head-foremos'.  An'  den  - 
but,  Lord,  suh,  you  know  de  balance  des 
good  ez  I  does,  kaze  I  hear  tell  dat  dey  wuz 
sumpin'  n'er  'bout  it  in  de  papers." 

This  was  as  far  as  Balaam  ever  would  go 
with  the  story  of  his  adventure.  He  had 
made  a  hero  of  Berrien  Cozart  from  his 
youth,  and  he  refused  to  dwell  on  any  epi 
sode  in  the  young  man's  career  that,  to  his 
mind,  was  not  worthy  of  a  Cozart.  When 
Berrien  leaped  to  the  lower  deck  of  the 
steamboat  his  foot  touched  a  stick  of  wood. 
This  he  flung  into  the  river,  and  then  hid 


40  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

himself  among  the  cotton  bales  that  were 
piled  011  the  forward  part  of  the  boat.  It 
will  never  be  known  whether  he  threw  the 
piece  of  wood  into  the  water  knowing  that 
Balaam  would  follow,  or  whether  his  sole 
intention  was  to  elude  pursuit.  A  shot  or 
two  was  fired,  but  the  bullets  fell  wide  of 
their  mark,  and  the  boat  swept  on,  leaving 
the  negro  swimming  around,  searching  for 
his  master. 

At  the  next  landing-place  Berrien  slipped 
ashore  unseen.  But  fortune  no  longer  fa 
vored  him  :  for  the  next  day  a  gentleman 
who  had  been  a  passenger  on  the  boat  recog 
nized  him,  and  an  attempt  was  made  to  ar 
rest  him.  He  shot  the  high  sheriff  of  the 
county  through  the  head,  and  became  a  fu 
gitive  indeed.  He  was  pursued  through  Ala 
bama  into  Georgia,  and  being  finally  cap 
tured  not  a  mile  away  from  Billville,  was 
thrown  into  jail  in  the  town  where  he  was 
born.  His  arrest,  owing  to  the  standing  of 
his  family,  created  a  tremendous  sensation 
in  the  quiet  village.  Before  he  was  carried 
to  jail  he  asked  that  his  father  be  sent  for. 
The  messenger  tarried  some  little  time,  but 
he  returned  alone. 

"What   did   my   father   say?"    Berrien 
asked  with  some  eagerness. 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  41 

"  He  said,"  replied  the  messenger,  "  that 
he  did  n't  want  to  see  you." 

"  Did  he  write  that  message  ?  "  the  young 
man  inquired. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  the  messenger  declared.  "  He 
just  waved  his  arm  —  so  —  and  said  he  did  n't 
want  to  see  you." 

At  once  the  troubled  expression  on  Ber- 
rien  Cozart's  face  disappeared.  He  looked 
around  on  the  crowd  and  smiled. 

"  You  see  what  it  is,"  he  said  with  a  light 
laugh,  "  to  be  the  pride  of  a  family  !  Gen 
tlemen,  I  am  ready.  Don't  let  me  keep  you 
waiting."  And  so,  followed  by  half  the 
population  of  his  native  village,  he  was  es 
corted  to  jail. 

This  building  was  a  two-story  brick  struc 
ture,  as  solid  as  good  material  and  good 
work  could  make  it,  and  there  was  no  fear 
that  any  prisoner  could  escape,  especially 
from  the  dungeon  where  Berrien's  captors 
insisted  on  confining  him.  Nevertheless 
the  jailer  was  warned  to  take  unusual  pre 
cautions.  This  official,  however,  who  occu 
pied  with  his  family  the  first  story  of  the 
jail,  merely  smiled.  He  had  grown  old  in 
the  business  of  keeping  this  jail,  and  cer 
tainly  he  knew  a  great  deal  more  about  it 


42  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

than  those  Mississippi  officials  who  were 
strutting  around  and  putting  on  such  airs. 

To  his  other  duties  the  jailer  added  those 
of  tyler  of  the  little  lodge  of  freemasons 
that  had  its  headquarters  in  a  hall  on  the 
public  square,  and  it  so  happened  that  the 
lodge  was  to  meet  on  the  very  night  that 
Berrien  was  put  into  jail.  After  supper  the 
jailer,  as  had  been  his  habit  for  years, 
smoked  his  pipe,  and  then  went  down  to  the 
village  and  lighted  the  lamps  in  the  ma 
sonic  hall.  His  wife  and  daughter,  full  of 
the  subject  of  Berrien  Cozart's  imprison 
ment,  went  to  a  neighbor's  not  far  away  for 
the  purpose  of  discussing  the  matter.  As 
they  passed  out  of  the  gate  they  heard  the 
jailer  blowing  the  tin  trumpet  which  was  the 
signal  for  the  masons  to  assemble. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  when  the 
jailer  returned,  but  he  found  his  wife  and 
daughter  waiting  for  him.  Both  had  a 
troubled  air,  and  they  lost  no  time  in  declar 
ing  that  they  had  heard  weeping  and  sob 
bing  upstairs  in  the  dungeon.  The  jailer 
himself  was  very  sympathetic,  having  known 
Berrien  for  many  years,  and  he  took  another 
turn  at  his  pipe  by  way  of  consolation. 
Then,  as  was  his  custom,  he  took  his  lantern 


BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER.  43 

and  went  around  the  jail  011  a  tour  of  in 
spection  to  see  that  everything  was  safe. 

He  did  not  go  far.  First  he  stumbled 
over  a  pile  of  bricks,  and  then  his  shoulder 
struck  a  ladder.  He  uttered  a  little  cry  and 
looked  upward,  and  there,  dim  as  his  lan 
tern  was,  he  could  see  a  black  and  gaping 
hole  in  the  wall  of  the  dungeon.  He  ran 
into  the  house  as  fast  as  his  rheumatic  legs 
could  carry  him,  and  he  screamed  to  his  wife 
and  daughter :  — 

"  Raise  the  alarm !  Cozart  has  escaped ! 
We  are  ruined  !  " 

Then  he  ran  to  the  dungeon  door,  flung 
it  open,  and  then  fell  back  with  a  cry  of 
terror.  What  did  he  see,  and  what  did  the 
others  who  joined  him  there  see  ?  On  the 
floor  lay  Berrien  Cozart  dead,  and  crouch 
ing  beside  him  was  Balaam.  How  the  ne 
gro  had  managed  to  make  his  way  through 
the  masonry  of  the  dungeon  without  dis 
covery  is  still  one  of  the  mysteries  of  Bill- 
ville.  But,  prompt  as  he  was,  he  was  too 
late.  His  master  had  escaped  through  a 
wider  door.  He  had  made  his  way  to  a 
higher  court.  Death,  coming  to  him  in  that 
dark  dungeon,  must  have  visited  him  in 
the  similitude  of  a  happy  dream,  for  there 


44  BALAAM  AND  HIS  MASTER. 

under  the  light  of  the  lanterns  he  lay  smil 
ing  sweetly  as  a  little  child  that  nestles  on 
its  mother's  breast ;  and  on  the  floor  near 
him,  where  it  had  dropped  from  his  nerve 
less  hand,  was  a  golden  locket,  from  which 
smiled  the  lovely  face  of  Sally  Carter. 


A  CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS. 


ON  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  December, 
1863,  two  horsemen  were  making  their  way 
across  Big  Corn  Valley  in  the  direction  of 
Sugar  Mountain.  They  had  started  from 
the  little  town  of  Jasper  early  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  it  was  apparent  at  a  glance  that 
they  had  not  enjoyed  the  journey.  They 
sat  listlessly  in  their  saddles,  with  their  car 
bines  across  their  laps,  and  whatever  conver 
sation  they  carried  on  was  desultory. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  journey  from  Jas 
per  to  the  top  of  Sugar  Mountain  was  not  a 
pleasant  one  even  in  the  best  of  weather, 
and  now,  with  the  wind  pushing  before  it  a 
bitterly  cold  mist,  its  disagreeableness  was 
irritating.  And  it  was  not  by  any  means  a 
short  journey.  Big  Corn  Valley  was  fifteen 
miles  across  as  the  crow  flies,  and  the  mean- 
derings  of  the  road  added  five  more.  Then 
there  was  the  barrier  of  the  foothills,  and 
finally  Sugar  Mountain  itself,  which  when 


46  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

the  weather  was  clear  lifted  itself  above  all 
the  other  mountains  of  that  region. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Occasionally,  when  the 
wind  blew  aside  the  oilskin  overcoats  of  the 
riders,  the  gray  uniform  of  the  Confederacy 
showed  beneath,  and  they  wore  cavalry 
boots,  and  there  were  tell-tale  trimmings  on 
their  felt  hats.  With  these  accoutrements 
to  advertise  them,  they  were  not  in  a 
friendly  region.  There  were  bushwhackers 
in  the  mountains,  and,  for  aught  the  horse 
men  knew,  the  fodder  stacks  in  the  valley, 
that  rose  like  huge  and  ominous  ghosts  out 
of  the  mist  on  every  side,  might  conceal 
dozens  of  guerrillas.  They  had  that  day 
ridden  past  the  house  of  the  only  member  of 
the  Georgia  State  convention  who  had  re 
fused  to  affix  his  signature  to  the  ordinance 
of  secession,  and  the  woods,  to  use  the  pro 
vincial  phrase,  were  full  of  Union  men. 

Suddenly,  and  with  a  fierce  and  ripping 
oath,  one  of  the  horsemen  drew  rein.  "  I 
wish  I  may  die,"  he  exclaimed,  his  voice 
trembling  with  long  pent  up  irritation,  "  if 
I  ain't  a  great  mind  to  turn  around  in  my 
tracks  an'  go  back.  Where  does  this  cussed 
road  lead  to  anyhow  ?  " 

"  To  the  mountain  —  straight  to  the  moun- 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  47 

tain,''  grimly  remarked  the  other,  who  had 
stopped  to  see  what  was  the  matter  with  his 
companion. 

"  Great  Jerusalem  !  straight  ?  Do  you 
see  that  fodder  stack  yonder  with  the  hawk 
on  the  top  of  the  pole  ?  Well,  we  've  passed 
it  four  times,  and  we  ain't  no  further  away 
from  it  now  than  we  was  at  fust." 

"  Well,  we've  no  time  to  stand  here.  In 
an  hour  we  '11  be  at  the  foot  of  the  moun 
tain,  and  a  quarter  of  a  mile  further  we  '11 
find  shelter.  We  must  attend  to  business 
and  talk  it  over  afterwards." 

"  An'  it  's  a  mighty  nice  business,  too," 
said  the  man  who  had  first  spoken.  He  was 
slender  in  build,  and  his  thin  and  straggling 
mustache  failed  to  relieve  his  effeminate  ap 
pearance.  He  had  evidently  never  seen 
hard  service.  "  I  never  have  believed  in  this 
conscriptin'  business,"  he  went  on  in  a  com 
plaining  tone.  "  It  won't  pan  out.  It  has 
turned  more  men  agin  the  Confederacy  than 
it  has  turned  fer  it,  or  else  my  daddy's  name 
ain't  Bill  Chadwick,  nor  mine  neither." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other  curtly,  "  it 's  the 
law,  Bill  Chadwick,  and  it  must  be  carried 
out.  We  've  got  our  orders." 

"  Oh,   yes !     You    are    the    commander, 


48  A  CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS. 

Cap'n  Moseley,  an'  I  'm  the  army.  Ain't  I 
the  gayest  army  you  ever  had  under  you  ? 
I  '11  tell  you  what,  Cap'n  Moseley  (I  'd  call 
you  Dick,  like  I  useter,  if  we  was  n't  in  the 
ranks),  when  I  j'ined  the  army  I  thought 
I  was  goin'  to  fight  the  Yankees,  but  they 
slapped  me  in  the  camp  of  instruction  over 
there  at  Adairsville,  an'  now  here  we  are 
fightin'  our  own  folks.  If  we  ain't  fightin' 
'em,  we  are  pursuin'  after  'em,  an'  runnin' 
'em  into  the  woods  an'  up  the  mountains. 
Now  what  kind  of  a  soldier  will  one  of  these 
conscripts  make  ?  You  need  n't  tell  me, 
Cap'n !  The  law  won't  pan  out." 

"  But  it 's  the  law,"  said  Captain  Moseley. 
The  captain  had  been  wounded  in  Virginia, 
and  was  entitled  to  a  discharge,  but  he  ac 
cepted  the  position  of  conscript  officer.  He 
had  the  grit  and  discipline  of  a  veteran,  and 
a  persistence  in  carrying  out  his  purposes 
that  gave  him  the  name  of  "  Hardhead  "  in 
the  army.  He  was  tall  and  muscular,  but 
his  drooping  left  shoulder  showed  where  a 
Federal  bullet  had  found  lodgment.  His 
closely  cropped  beard  was  slightly  streaked 
with  gray,  and  his  face  would  have  been 
handsome  had  not  determination  left  its  rude 
handwriting  there. 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  49 

The  two  rode  on  together  in  silence  a  lit 
tle  space,  the  cold  mists,  driven  by  the  wind, 
tingling  in  their  faces.  Presently  Private 
Chadwick,  who  had  evidently  been  rumina 
ting  over  the  matter,  resumed  the  thread  of 
his  complaints. 

"  They  tell  me,"  he  said,  "  that  it 's  a 
heap  easier  to  make  a  bad  law  than  it  is  to 
make  a  good  one.  It  takes  a  lot  of  smart 
men  a  long  time  to  make  a  good  one,  but  a 
passel  of  blunderbusses  can  patch  a  bad  one 
up  in  a  little  or  no  time.  That 's  the  way  I 
look  at  it. 

"What's  the  name  of  this  chap  we  are 
after  ?  Israel  Spurlock  ?  I  'd  like  to  know, 
by  George,  what 's  the  matter  with  him ! 
What  makes  him  so  plague-taked  impor 
tant  that  two  men  have  to  be  sent  on  a  wild- 
goose  chase  after  him?  They  yerked  him 
into  army,  an'  he  yerked  himself  out,  an' 
now  the  word  is  that  the  war  can't  go  on 
unless  Israel  Spurlock  is  on  hand  to  fling 
down  his  gun  an'  run  when  he  hears  a  bung- 
shell  play  in'  a  tune  in  the  air." 

Captain  Moseley  coughed  to  hide  a  smile. 

"  It 's  jest  like  I  tell  you,  Cap'n.  The 
news  is  that  we  had  a  terrible  victory  at 
Chattanooga,  but  I  notice  in  the  Atlanta  pa- 


50  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

pers  that  the  Yankees  ain't  no  further  north 
than  they  was  before  the  fight ;  an'  what 
makes  it  wuss,  they  are  warmin'  themselves 
in  Chattanooga,  whilst  we  are  shiverin'  out 
side.  I  reckon  if  Israel  Spurloek  had  been 
on  hand  at  the  right  time  an'  in  the  right 
place,  we  'd  a  drove  the  Yanks  plumb  back 
to  Nashville.  Lord  !  I  hope  we  '11  have  him 
on  the  skirmish  line  the  next  time  we  sur 
round  the  enemy  an'  drive  him  into  a  town 
as  big  as  Chattanooga." 

Private  Chadwick  kept  up  his  complaints 
for  some  time,  but  they  failed  to  disturb  the 
serenity  of  the  captain,  who  urged  his  horse 
forward  through  the  mist,  closely  followed 
by  his  companion.  They  finally  left  the 
valley,  passed  over  the  foothills,  and  began 
the  ascent  of  Sugar  Mountain.  Here  their 
journey  became  less  disagreeable.  The  road, 
winding  and  twisting  around  the  mountain, 
had  been  cut  through  a  dense  growth  of 
trees,  and  these  proved  to  be  something  of 
a  shelter.  Moreover,  the  road  sometimes 
brought  the  mountain  between  the  travelers 
and  the  wind,  and  these  were  such  comforta 
ble  intervals  that  Mr.  Chadwick  ceased  his 
complaints  and  rode  along  good-humored ly. 

The    two   horsemen   had    gone   about   a 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  51 

mile,  measuring  the  mountain  road,  though 
they  were  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  foot,  when  they  came  sud 
denly  on  an  old  man  sitting  in  a  sheltered 
place  by  the  side  of  the  road.  They  came 
on  the  stranger  so  suddenly  that  their  horses 
betrayed  alarm,  and  it  was  all  they  could 
do  to  keep  the  animals  from  slipping  and 
rolling  into  the  gorge  at  their  left.  The 
old  man  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  gray  jeans, 
and  wore  a  wool  hat,  which,  although  it 
showed  the  signs  of  constant  use,  had  some 
how  managed  to  retain  its  original  shape. 
His  head  was  large  and  covered  with  a  pro 
fusion  of  iron-gray  hair,  which  was  neatly 
combed.  His  face  was  round,  but  the  lines 
of  character  obliterated  all  suggestions  of 
chubbiness.  The  full  beard  that  he  wore 
failed  to  hide  evidences  of  firmness  and  de 
termination  ;  but  around  his  mouth  a  serene 
smile  lingered,  and  humor  sparkled  in  his 
small  brown  eyes. 

"  Howdy,  boys,  howdy !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Tired  as  they  look  to  be,  you  er  straddlin' 
right  peart  creeturs.  A  flirt  or  two  more 
an'  they  'd  'a'  flung  you  down  the  hill,  an' 
'a'  follered  along  atter  you,  headstall  an' 
stirrup.  They  done  like  they  were  n't  ex- 
pectin'  company  in  an'  around  here." 


52      A  CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS. 

The  sonorous  voice  and  deliberate  utter 
ance  of  the  old  man  bespoke  his  calling. 
He  was  evidently  a  minister  of  the  gospel. 
This  gave  a  clew  to  Captain  Moseley's 
memory. 

"  This  must  be  Uncle  Billy  Powers,"  said 
the  captain.  "  I  have  heard  you  preach 
many  a  time  when  I  was  a  boy." 

" That's  my  name,"  said  Uncle  Billy; 
"  an'  in  my  feeble  way  I  've  been  a-preach- 
in'  the  Word  as  it  was  given  to  me  forty 
year,  lackin'  one.  Ef  I  ever  saw  you,  the 
circumstance  has  slipped  from  me." 

"  My  name  is  Moseley,"  said  the  captain. 

"  I  useter  know  Jeremiah  Moseley  in  my 
younger  days,"  said  Uncle  Billy,  gazing  re 
flectively  at  the  piece  of  pine  bark  he  was 
whittling.  "  Yes,  yes  !  I  knowed  Brother 
Moseley  well.  He  was  a  God-fearin'  man." 

"  He  was  my  father,"  said  the  captain. 

"Well,  well,  well!"  exclaimed  Uncle 
Billy,  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  combine  re 
flection  with  astonishment.  "Jerry  Mose 
ley's  son  ;  I  disremember  the  day  when 
Brother  Moseley  came  into  my  mind,  an'  yit, 
now  that  I  hear  his  name  bandied  about  up 
here  on  the  hill,  it  carries  me  back  to  ole 
times.  He  weren't  much  of  a  preacher  on 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  53 

his  own  hook,  but  let  'im  foller  along  for  to 
clench  the  sermon,  an'  his  match  could  n't 
be  foun'  in  them  days.  Yit,  Jerry  was  a 
man  of  peace,  an'  here's  his  son  a-gwine 
about  with  guns  an'  pistols,  an'  what  not, 
a-tryin'  to  give  peaceable  folks  a  smell  of 


war. 


•  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Captain  Moseley,  laugh 
ing  ;  "  we  are  just  hunting  up  some  old  ac 
quaintances,  —  some  friends  of  ours  that 
we  'd  like  to  see." 

"Well,"  said  Uncle  Billy,  sinking  his 
knife  deep  into  the  soft  pine  bark,  "  it 's  bad 
weather  for  a  frolic,  an'  it  ain't  much  bet 
ter  for  a  straight-out,  eve'y-day  call.  Spesh- 
ually  up  here  on  the  hill,  where  the  ground 
is  so  wet  and  slipperyfied.  It  looks  like 
you  've  come  a  mighty  long  ways  for  to  pay 
a  friendly  call.  An'  yit,"  the  old  man  con 
tinued,  looking  up  at  the  captain  with  a 
smile  that  well  became  his  patriarchal  face, 
"  thar  ain't  a  cabin  on  the  hill  whar  you 
won't  be  more  than  welcome.  Yes,  sir ; 
wheresomever  you  find  a  h'a'thstone,  thar 
you  '11  find  a  place  to  rest." 

"So  I  have  heard,"  said  the  captain. 
"  But  maybe  you  can  cut  our  journey  short. 
We  have  a  message  for  Israel  Spurlock." 


54  A    CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

Immediately  Captain  Moseley  knew  that 
the  placid  and  kindly  face  of  Uncle  Billy 
Powers  had  led  him  into  making  a  mistake. 
He  knew  that  he  had  mentioned  Israel  Spur- 
lock's  name  to  the  wrong  man  at  the  wrong 
time.  There  was  a  scarcely  perceptible 
frown  on  Uncle  Billy's  face  as  he  raised  it 
from  his  piece  of  pine  bark,  which  was  now 
assuming  the  shape  of  a  horseman's  pistol, 
and  he  looked  at  the  captain  through  half- 
closed  eyelids. 

"  Come,  now,"  he  exclaimed,  "  ain't  Israel 
Spurlock  in  the  war?  Did  n't  a  posse 
ketch  'im  down  yander  in  Jasper  an'  take  an' 
cornscrip'  'im  into  the  army  ?  Run  it  over 
in  your  mind  now  !  Ain't  Israel  Spurlock 
crippled  some'r's,  an'  ain't  your  message  for 
his  poor  ole  mammy  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  captain,  laughing,  and 
trying  to  hide  his  inward  irritation. 

"Not  so?"  exclaimed  Uncle  Billy. 
"  Well,  sir,  you  must  be  shore  an'  set  me 
right  when  I  go  wrong;  but  I'll  tell  you 
right  pine  blank,  I  've  had  Israel  Spurlock 
in  my  min'  off  an'  on'  ev'ry  since  they  run 
him  down  an'  kotch  him  an'  drug  'im  off  to 
war.  He  was  weakly  like  from  the  time  he 
was  a  boy,  an'  when  I  heard  you  call  forth 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  55 

his  name,  I  allowed  to  myself,  says  I,  '  Is 
rael  Spurlock  is  sick,  an'  they  've  come  atter 
his  ole  mammy  to  go  an'  nuss  him.'  That 's 
the  idee  that  riz  up  in  my  miii'." 

A  man  more  shrewd  than  Captain  Mose- 
ley  would  have  been  deceived  by  the  bland 
simplicity  of  Uncle  Billy's  tone. 

"  No,"  said  he ;  "  Spurlock  is  not  sick. 
He  is  a  sounder  man  than  I  am.  He  was 
conscripted  in  Jasper  and  carried  to  Adairs- 
ville,  and  after  he  got  used  to  the  camp  he 
concluded  that  he  would  come  home  and  tell 
his  folks  good-by." 

"  Now  that 's  jes  like  Israel,"  said  Uncle 
Billy,  closing  his  eyes  and  compressing  his 
lips  — "  jes  like  him  for  the  world.  He 
knowed  that  he  was  drug  off  right  spang  at 
the  time  he  wanted  to  be  getherin'  in  his 
craps,  an'  savin'  his  ruffage,  an'  one  thing 
an'  another  bekaze  his  ole  mammy  dd  n't 
have  a  soul  to  help  her  but  'iin.  I  reckon 
he  's  been  a-housin'  his  corn  an'  sich  like. 
The  ole  'oman  tuck  on  might'ly  when  Israel 
was  snatched  into  the  army." 

"  How  far  is  it  to  shelter  ? "  inquired 
Captain  Moseley. 

"  Not  so  mighty  fur,"  responded  Uncle 
Billy,  whittling  the  pine  bark  more  can- 


56  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

tiously.  "  Jes  keep  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  an'  you  '11  soon  come  to  it.  Ef  I  ain't 
thar  before  you,  jes  holler  for  Aunt  Crissy 
an'  tell  her  that  you  saw  Uncle  Billy  some  Ys 
in  the  woods  an'  he  told  you  to  wait  for  'im." 

With  that,  Captain  Moseley  and  Private 
Chadwick  spurred  their  horses  up  the  moun 
tain  road,  leaving  Uncle  Billy  whittling. 

"  Well,  dang  my  buttons ! "  exclaimed 
Chadwick,  when  they  were  out  of  hearing. 

"  What  now  ? "  asked  the  captain,  turn 
ing  in  his  saddle.  Private  Chadwick  had 
stopped  his  horse  and  was  looking  back  down 
the  mountain  as  if  he  expected  to  be  pur 
sued. 

"  I  wish  I  may  die,"  he  went  on,  giving 
his  horse  the  rein,  "  if  we  ain't  walked  right 
square  into  it  with  our  eyes  wide  open." 

"  Into  what  ?  "  asked  the  captain,  curtly. 

"  Into  trouble,"  said  Chadwick.  "  Oh," 
he  exclaimed,  looking  at  his  companion 
seriously,  "  you  may  grin  behind  your  beard, 
but  you  just  wait  till  the  fun  begins  —  all 
the  grins  you  can  muster  will  be  mighty  dry 
grins.  Why,  Cap.,  I  could  read  that  old 
chap  as  if  he  was  a  newspaper.  Whilst  he 
was  a-watchin'  you  I  was  a-watchin'  him,  an' 
if  he  ain't  got  a  war  map  printed  on  his, 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  57 

face  I  ain't  never  saw  none  in  the  4  Charles 
ton  Mercury.' ': 

"  The  old  man  is  a  preacher,"  said  Cap 
tain  Moseley  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  dis 
pose  of  the  matter. 

"  Well,  the  Lord  help  us  !  "  exclaimed 
Chadwick.  "  In  about  the  wuss  whippin'  I 
ever  got  was  from  a  young  feller  that  was 
preachin'  an'  courtin'  in  my  neighborhood. 
I  sorter  sassed  him  about  a  gal  he  was  fly  in' 
around,  an'  he  upped  an'  frailed  me  out,  an' 
got  the  gal  to  boot.  Don't  tell  me  about  no 
preachers.  Why,  that  chap  flew  at  me  like 
a  Stonefence  rooster,  an'  he  fluttered  twice 
to  my  once." 

"  And  have  you  been  running  from  preach 
ers  ever  since  ?  "  dryly  inquired  the  captain. 

"Not  as  you  may  say,  constantly  a-run- 
nin',"  replied  Chadwick  ;  "  yit  I  ain't  been 
a-flingin'  no  sass  at  'em ;  an'  my  reason  tells 
me  for  to  give  'em  the  whole  wedth  of  the 
big  road  when  I  meet  'em," 

"  Well,"  said  the  captain,  "  what  will  you 
do  about  this  preacher  ?  " 

"A  man  in  a  corner,"  responded  Chad 
wick,  "  is  obleeged  to  do  the  best  he  kin. 
I  '11  jest  keep  my  eye  on  him,  an'  the  fust 
motion  he  makes,  I  '11 "  — 


58  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

"  Eun  ?  "  suggested  the  captain. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Chadwick,  "  a  man  in 
a  corner  can't  most  ingener'lly  run.  Git 
me  hemmed  in,  an'  I  '11  scratch  an'  bite  an' 
scuffle  the  best  way  I  know  how.  It 's  hu 
man  natur',  an'  I  'm  mighty  glad  it  is ;  for 
if  that  old  man's  eyes  did  n't  tell  no  lies  we  '11 
have  to  scratch  an'  scuffle  before  we  git 
away  from  this  mountain." 

Captain  Moseley  bit  his  mustache  and 
smiled  grimly  as  the  tired  horses  toiled  up 
the  road.  A  vague  idea  of  possible  danger 
had  crossed  his  mind  while  talking  to  Uncle 
Billy  Powers,  but  he  dismissed  it  at  once  as  a 
matter  of  little  importance  to  a  soldier  bent 
on  carrying  out  his  orders  at  all  hazards. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  two  travelers 
found  themselves  on  a  plateau  formed  by  a 
shoulder  of  the  mountain.  On  this  plateau 
were  abundant  signs  of  life.  Cattle  were 
grazing  about  among  the  trees,  chickens 
were  crowing,  and  in  the  distance  could  be 
heard  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice  singing. 
As  they  pressed  forward  along  the  level  road 
they  came  in  sight  of  a  cabin,  and  the  blue 
smoke  curling  from  its  short  chimney  was 
suggestive  of  hospitality.  It  was  a  comfor 
table-looking  cabin,  too,  flanked  by  several 


A    CONSCKIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  59 

outhouses.  The  buildings,  in  contrast  with 
the  majestic  bulk  of  the  mountain,  that  still 
rose  precipitously  skyward,  were  curiously 
small,  but  there  was  an  air  of  more  than  or 
dinary  neatness  and  coziness  about  them. 
And  there  were  touches  of  feminine  hands 
here  and  there  that  made  an  impression  — 
rows  of  well-kept  boxwood  winding  like  a 
green  serpent  through  the  yard,  and  a  pri 
vet  hedge  that  gave  promise  of  rare  sweet 
ness  in  the  spring. 

As  the  soldiers  approached,  a  dog  barked, 
and  then  the  singing  ceased,  and  the  figure 
of  a  young  girl  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
only  to  disappear  like  a  flash.  This  vision, 
vanishing  with  incredible  swiftness,  was  suc 
ceeded  by  a  more  substantial  one  in  the  shape 
of  a  motherly  looking  woman,  who  stood 
gazing  over  her  spectacles  at  the  horsemen, 
apparently  undecided  whether  to  frown  or 
to  smile.  The  smile  would  have  undoubtedly 
forced  its  way  to  the  pleasant  face  in  any 
event,  for  the  years  had  fashioned  many  a 
pathway  for  it,  but  just  then  Uncle  Billy 
Powers  himself  pushed  the  woman  aside  and 
made  his  appearance,  laughing. 

"'Light,  boys,  'light;!"  he  exclaimed, 
walking  nimbly  to  the  gate.  "  'Light  whilst 


60  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

I  off  wi'  your  creeturs'  gear.  Ah !  "  he 
went  on,  as  he  busied  himself  unsaddling 
the  horses,  "you  thought  that  while  your 
Uncle  Billy  was  a-moonin'  aroun'  down  the 
hill  yander  you'd  steal  a  march  on  your 
Aunt  Crissy,  an'  maybe  come  a-conscriptin' 
of  her  into  the  army.  But  not  —  not  so! 
Your  Uncle  Billy  has  been  here  long  enough 
to  get  his  hands  an'  his  face  rested." 

"You  must  have  been  in  a  tremendous 
hurry,"  said  Captain  Moseley,  remembering 
the  weary  length  of  mountain  road  he  had 
climbed. 

"  Why,  I  could  'a'  tuck  a  nap  an'  'a'  beat 
you,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Two  miles  of  tough  road,  I  should  say," 
responded  Moseley. 

"  Go  straight  through  my  hoss  lot  and 
let  yourself  down  by  a  saplin'  or  two,"  an 
swered  Uncle  Billy,  "  an'  it  ain't  more  'n  a 
good  quarter."  Whereupon  the  old  man 
laughed  heartily. 

"  Jes  leave  the  creeturs  here,"  he  went 
on.  "  John  Jeems  an'  Fillmore  will  ten'  to 
'em  whilst  we  go  in  an'  see  what  your  Aunt 
Crissy  is  gwine  to  give  us  for  supper.  You 
won't  find  the  grut^  so  mighty  various,  but 
there  is  plenty  enough  of  what  they  is." 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  61 

There  was  just  enough  of  deference  in 
Aunt  Crissy's  greeting  to  be  pleasing,  and 
her  unfeigned  manifestations  of  hospitality 
soon  caused  the  guests  to  forget  that  they 
might  possibly  be  regarded  as  intruders  in 
that  peaceful  region.  Then  there  were  the 
two  boys,  John  Jeems  and  Fillmore,  both 
large  enough,  and  old  enough,  as  Captain 
Moseley  quietly  observed  to  himself,  to  do 
military  service,  and  both  shy  and  awkward 
to  a  degree.  And  then  there  was  Polly,  a 
young  woman  grown,  whose  smiles  all  ran 
to  blushes  and  dimples.  Though  she  was 
grown,  she  had  the  ways  of  a  girl  —  the  vi 
vacity  of  health  and  good  humor,  and  the 
innocent  shyness  of  a  child  of  nature.  Im 
pulsive  and  demure  by  turns,  her  moods 
were  whimsical  and  elusive  and  altogether 
delightful.  Her  beauty,  which  illumined 
the  old  cabin,  was  heightened  by  a  certain 
quality  that  may  be  described  as  individu 
ality.  Her  face  and  hands  were  browned 
by  the  sun,  but  in  her  cheeks  the  roses  of 
youth  and  health  played  constantly.  There 
is  nothing  more  charming  to  the  eye  of  man 
than  the  effects  produced  when  modesty 
parts  company  with  mere  formality  and  con 
ventionality.  Polly,  who  was  as  shy  as  a 


62  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

ground  squirrel  and  as  graceful,  never  pes 
tered  herself  about  formalities.  Innocence 
is  not  infrequently  a  very  delightful  form  of 
boldness.  It  was  so  in  the  case  of  Polly 
Powers,  at  any  rate. 

The  two  rough  soldiers,  unused  to  the  so 
ciety  of  women,  were  far  more  awkward  and 
constrained  than  the  young  woman,  but  they 
enjoyed  the  big  fire  and  the  comfortable  sup 
per  none  the  less  on  that  account.  When, 
to  employ  Mrs.  Powers's  vernacular,  "  the 
things  were  put  away,"  they  brought  forth 
their  pipes ;  and  they  felt  so  contented  that 
Captain  Moseley  reproved  himself  by  sug 
gesting  that  it  might  be  well  for  them  to 
proceed  on  their  journey  up  the  mountain. 
But  their  hosts  refused  to  listen  to  such  a 
proposal. 

"Not  so,"  exclaimed  Uncle  Billy;  "  by 
no  means.  Why,  if  you  knowed  this  hill 
like  we  all,  you  'd  hoot  at  the  bar'  idee  of 
gwine  further  after  nightfall.  Besides,"  the 
old  man  went  on,  looking  keenly  at  his 
daughter,  "  ten  to  one  you  won't  find  Spur- 
lock." 

Polly  had  been  playing  with  her  hair, 
which  was  caught  in  a  single  plait  and  tied 
with  a  bit  of  scarlet  ribbon.  When  Spur- 


A   CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS.  63 

lock's  name  was  mentioned  she  used  the 
plait  as  a  whip,  and  struck  herself  impa 
tiently  in  the  hand  with  the  glossy  black 
thong,  and  then  threw  it  behind  her,  where 
it  hung  dangling  nearly  to  the  floor. 

"  Now  I  tell  you  what,  boys,"  said  Uncle 
Billy,  after  a  little  pause  ;  "  I  'd  jes  like  to 
know  who  is  at  the  bottom  of  this  Spurlock 
business.  You  all  may  have  took  a  notion 
that  he  's  a  no-'count  sorter  chap  —  an'  he 
is  kinder  puny ;  but  what  does  the  army 
want  with  a  puny  man  ?  " 

"It's  the  law,"  said  Captain  Moseley, 
simply,  perceiving  that  his  mission  was 
clearly  understood.  "  He  is  old  enough  and 
strong  enough  to  serve  in  the  army.  The 
law  calls  for  him,  and  he  '11  have  to  go. 
The  law  wants  him  now  worse  than  ever." 

"  Yes,"  said  private  Chadwick,  gazing 
into  the  glowing  embers  —  "  lots  worse  'n 
ever." 

"  What's  the  matter  along  of  him  now?  " 
inquired  Mrs.  Powers,  knocking  the  ashes 
from  her  pipe  against  the  chimney  jamb. 

"  He  's  a  deserter,"  said  Chadwick. 

"  Tooby  shore  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Powers. 
"  An'  what  do  they  do  wi'  'em,  then  ?  " 

For  answer  Private  Chadwick  passed  his 


64  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHKISTMAS. 

right  hand  rapidly  around  his  neck,  caught 
hold  of  an  imaginary  rope,  and  looked  up 
wards  at  the  rafters,  rolling  his  eyes  and 
distorting  his  features  as  though  he  were 
strangling.  It  was  a  very  effective  panto 
mime.  Uncle  Billy  shook  his  head  and 
groaned,  Aunt  Crissy  lifted  her  hands  in 
horror,  and  then  both  looked  at  Polly. 
That  young  lady  had  risen  from  her  chair 
and  made  a  step  toward  Chadwick.  Her 
eyes  were  blazing. 

"  You  '11  be  hung  long  before  Israel  Spur- 
lock  !  "  she  cried,  her  voice  thick  with  an 
ger.  Before  another  word  had  been  said 
she  swept  from  the  room,  leaving  Chadwick 
sitting  there  with  his  mouth  wide  open. 

"  Don't  let  Polly  pester  you,"  said  Uncle 
Billy,  smiling  a  little  at  Chadwick's  discom 
fiture.  "  She  thinks  the  world  an'  all  of 
Sister  Spurlock,  an'  she's  been  a-knowin' 
Israel  a  mighty  long  time." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Crissy,  with  a  sigh ; 
"  the  poor  child  is  hot-headed  an'  high-tem 
pered.  I  reckon  we  've  sp'ilt  'er.  'T  ain't 
hard  to  spile  a  gal  when  you  hain't  got  but 
one." 

Before  Chadwick  could  make  reply  a  shrill, 
querulous  voice  was  heard  coming  from  the 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  65 

room  into  which  Polly  had  gone.  The  girl 
had  evidently  arouse<J  some  one  who  was 
more  than  anxious  to  engage  in  a  war  of 
words. 

"  Lord  A'mighty  massy !  whar  's  any 
peace  ?  "  the  shrill  voice  exclaimed.  "  What 
chance  on  the  top  side  of  the  yeth  is  a  poor 
sick  creetur  got?  Oh,  what  makes  you 
come  a-tromplin'  on  the  floor  like  a  drove  of 
wild  hosses,  an'  a-shakin'  the  clabberds  on 
the  roof  ?  I  know  !  I  know  !  "  -  the  voice 
here  almost  rose  to  a  shriek,  —  "  it 's  'cause 
I  'm  sick  an'  weak,  an'  can't  he'p  myself. 
Lord  !  ef  I  but  had  strength  !  " 

At  this  point  Polly's  voice  broke  in,  but 
what  she  said  could  only  be  guessed  by  the 
noise  in  the  next  room. 

"  Well,  what  ef  the  house  an'  yard  was 
full  of 'em?  Who's  afeard?  After  Spur- 
lock?  Who  keers?  Hain't  Spurlock  got 
no  friends  on  Sugar  Mountain  ?  Ef  they 
are  after  Spurlock,  ain't  Spurlock  got  as 
good  a  right  for  to  be  after  them  ?  Oh,  go 
'way  !  Gals  hain't  got  no  sense.  Go  'way  ! 
Go  tell  your  pappy  to  come  here  an'  he'p 
me  in  my  cheer.  Oh,  go  on  !  " 

Polly  had  no  need  to  go,  however.  Un 
cle  Billy  rose  promptly  and  went  into  the 
next  room. 


66  A   CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS. 

"  Hit 's  daddy,"  said  Aunt  Crissy,  by  way 
of  explanation.  "  Lord  !  daddy  used  to  be 
a  mighty  man  in  his  young  days,  but  he  's 
that  wasted  wi'  the  palsy  that  he  hain't 
more  'n  a  shadder  of  what  he  was.  He 's 
jes  like  a  baby,  an'  he  's  mighty  quar'lsome 
when  the  win'  sets  in  from  the  east." 

According  to  all  symptoms  the  wind  was 
at  that  moment  setting  terribly  from  the 
east.  There  was  a  sound  of  shuffling  in  the 
next  room,  and  then  Uncle  Billy  Powers 
came  into  the  room,  bearing  in  his  stalwart 
arms  a  big  rocking-chair  containing  a  little 
old  man  whose  body  and  limbs  were  shriv 
eled  and  shrunken.  Only  his  head,  which 
seemed  to  be  abnormally  large,  had  escaped 
the  ravages  of  whatever  disease  had  seized 
him.  His  eyes  were  bright  as  a  bird's  and 
his  forehead  was  noble  in  its  proportions. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Uncle  Billy,  "this 
here  is  Colonel  Dick  Watson.  He  used  to 
be  a  big  politicianer  in  his  day  an'  time. 
He 's  my  father-in-law." 

Uncle  Billy  seemed  to  be  wonderfully 
proud  of  his  connection  with  Colonel  Wat 
son.  As  for  the  Colonel,  he  eyed  the  stran 
gers  closely,  apparently  forgetting  to  re 
spond  to  their  salutation. 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  67 

"  I  reckon  you  think  it 's  mighty  fine, 
thish  'ere  business  er  gwine  ter  war  whar 
they  hain't  nobody  but  peaceable  folks,"  ex 
claimed  the  colonel,  his  shrill,  metallic  voice 
being  in  curious  contrast  to  his  emaciated 
figure. 

"  Daddy !  "  said  Mrs.  Powers  in  a  warn 
ing  tone. 

"  Lord  A'mighty  !  don't  pester  me,  Crissy 
Jane.  Hain't  I  done  seed  war  before  ? 
When  I  was  in  the  legislatur'  did  n't  the 
boys  rig  up  an'  march  away  to  Mexico? 
But  you  know  yourself,"  the  colonel  went 
on,  turning  to  Uncle  Billy's  guests,  "that 
this  hain't  Mexico,  an'  that  they  hain't  no 
war  gwine  on  on  this  'ere  hill.  You  know 
that  mighty  well." 

"  But  there 's  a  tolerable  big  one  going  on 
over  yonder,"  said  Captain  Moseley,  with  a 
sweep  of  his  hand  to  the  westward. 

"  Now,  you  don't  say  !  "  exclaimed  Colo 
nel  Watson,  sarcastically.  "  A  big  war  go 
ing  on  an'  you  all  quiled  up  here  before  the 
fire,  out  'n  sight  an'  out  'n  hearin' !  Well, 
well,  well!." 

"  We  are  here  on  business,"  said  Captain 
Moseley,  gently. 

"  Tooby  shore !  "  said  the  Colonel,  with  a 


68  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

sinister  screch  that  was  intended  to  simu 
late  laughter.  "  You  took  the  words  out  'n 
my  mouth.  I  was  in-about  ready  to  say  it 
when  you  upped  an'  said  it  yourself.  War 
gwine  on  over  yander  an'  you  all  up  here  on 
business.  Crissy  Jane,"  remarked  the  colo 
nel  in  a  different  tone,  "  come  here  an'  wipe 
my  face  an'  see  ef  I  'm  a-sweatin'.  Ef  I  'in 
a-sweatin',  hit 's  the  fust  time  since  Sadday 
before  last." 

Mrs.  Powers  mopped  her  father's  face, 
and  assured  him  that  she  felt  symptoms  of 
perspiration. 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  continued  the  colonel. 
"  Business  here  an'  war  yander.  I  hear  tell 
that  you  er  after  Israel  Spurlock.  Lord 
A'mighty  above  us !  What  er  you  after 
Israel  for  ?  He  hain't  got  no  niggers  for  to 
fight  for.  All  the  fightin'  he  can  do  is  to 
fight  for  his  ole  mammy." 

Captain  Moseley  endeavored  to  explain  to 
Colonel  Watson  why  his  duty  made  it  im 
peratively  necessary  to  carry  Spurlock  back 
to  the  conscript  camp,  but  in  the  midst  of  it 
all  the  old  man  cried  out :  — 

"  Oh,  I  know  who  sent  you  !  " 

"  Who  ?  "  the  captain  said. 

"  Nobody  but  Wesley  Lovejoy !  " 


A    CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  69 

Captain  Moseley  made  no  response,  but 
gazed  into  the  fire.  Chadwick,  on  the  other 
hand,  when  Lovejoy's  name  was  mentioned, 
slapped  himself  on  the  leg,  and  straightened 
himself  up  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has 
made  an  interesting  discovery. 

"  Come,  now,"  Colonel  Watson  insisted, 
"hain't  it  so?  Did  n't  Wesley  Lovejoy 
send  you  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Moseley,  "  a  man  named 
Lovejoy  is  on  Colonel  Waring's  staff,  and 
he  gave  me  my  orders." 

At  this  the  old  man  fairly  shrieked  with 
laughter,  and  so  sinister  was  its  emphasis 
that  the  two  soldiers  felt  the  cold  chills 
creeping  up  their  backs. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Lovejoy  ?  "  It 
was  Chadwick  who  spoke. 

"  Oh,  wait !  "  cried  Colonel  Watson ; 
"  thes  wait.  You  may  n't  want  to  wait,  but 
you  '11  have  to.  I  may  look  like  I  'm  mighty 
puny,  an'  I  'spec'  I  am,  but  I  hain't  dead 
yit.  Lord  A'mighty,  no  !  Not  by  a  long 
shot !  " 

There  was  a  pause  here,  during  which 
Aunt  Crissy  remarked,  in  a  helpless  sort  of 
way:  — 

"  I  wonder  wher'  Polly  is,  an'  what  she  's 
a-doin'?" 


70  A    CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

"  Don't  pester  'long  of  Polly,"  snapped 
the  paralytic.  "  She  knows  what  she 's  a- 
doin'." 

"  About  this  Wesley  Lovejoy,"  said  Cap 
tain  Moseley,  turning  to  the  old  man  :  "  you 
seem  to  know  him  very  well." 

"  You  hear  that,  William !  "  exclaimed 
Colonel  Watson.  "  He  asts  me  ef  I  know 
Wes.  Lovejoy!  Do  I  know  him?  Why, 
the  triflin'  houn' !  I  've  knowed  him  ev'ry 
sence  he  was  big  enough  to  rob  a  hen-roosV 

Uncle  Billy  Powers,  in  his  genial  way, 
tried  to  change  the  current  of  conversation, 
and  he  finally  succeeded,  but  it  was  evident 
that  Adjutant  Lovejoy  had  one  enemy,  if 
not  several,  in  that  humble  household. 
Such  was  the  feeling  for  Spurlock  and  con 
tempt  for  Wesley  Lovejoy  that  Captain 
Moseley  and  Private  Chad  wick  felt  them 
selves  to  be  interlopers,  and  they  once  more 
suggested  the  necessity  of  pursuing  their 
journey.  This  suggestion  seemed  to  amuse 
the  paralytic,  who  laughed  loudly. 

"  Lord  A'mighty  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I 
know  how  you  feel,  an'  I  don't  blame  you 
for  feelin'  so ;  but  don't  you  go  up  the 
mountain  this  night.  Thes  stay  right  whar 
you  is,  beca'se  ef  you  don't  you  '11  make  all 


A   CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS.  71 

your  friends  feel  bad  for  you.  Don't  ast 
me  how,  don't  ast  me  why.  Thes  you  stay. 
Come  an'  put  me  to  bed,  William,  an'  donjt 
let  these  folks  go  out  'n  the  house  this  night." 

Uncle  Billy  carried  the  old  man  into  the 
next  room,  tucked  him  away  in  his  bed,  and 
then  came  back.  Conversation  lagged  to 
such  an  extent  that  Aunt  Crissy  once  more 
felt  moved  to  inquire  about  Polly.  Uncle 
Billy  responded  with  a  sweeping  gesture  of 
his  right  hand,  which  might  mean  much  or 
little.  To  the  two  Confederates  it  meant 
nothing,  but  to  Aunt  Crissy  it  said  that 
Polly  had  gone  up  the  mountain  in  the  rain 
and  cold.  Involuntarily  the  woman  shud 
dered  and  drew  nearer  the  fire. 

It  was  in  fact  a  venturesome  journey  that 
Polly  had  undertaken.  Hardened  as  she 
was  to  the  weather,  familiar  as  she  was  with 
the  footpaths  that  led  up  and  down  and 
around  the  face  of  the  mountain,  her  heart 
rose  in  her  mouth  when  she  found  herself 
fairly  on  the  way  to  Israel  Spurlock's  house. 
The  darkness  was  almost  overwhelming  in 
its  intensity.  As  Uncle  Billy  Powers  re 
marked  while  showing  the  two  Confederates 
to  their  beds  in  the  "  shed-room,"  there  "  was 
a  solid  chunk  of  it  from  one  eend  of  crea- 


72     A  CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS. 

tion  to  t'  other."  The  rain,  falling  steadily 
but  not  heavily,  was  bitterly  cold,  and  it 
was  made  more  uncomfortable  by  the  wind, 
which  rose  and  fell  with  a  muffled  roar,  like 
the  sigh  of  some  Titanic  spirit  flying  hither 
and  yonder  in  the  wild  recesses  of  the  sky. 
Bold  as  she  was,  the  girl  was  appalled  by  the 
invisible  contention  that  seemed  to  be  going 
on  in  the  elements  above  her,  and  more  than 
once  she  paused,  ready  to  flee,  as  best  she 
could,  back  to  the  light  and  warmth  she  had 
left  behind  ;  but  the  gesture  of  Chadwick, 
with  its  cruel  significance,  would  recur  to 
her,  and  then,  clenching  her  teeth,  she  would 
press  blindly  on.  She  was  carrying  a  mes 
sage  of  life  and  freedom  to  Israel  Spurlock. 

With  the  rain  dripping  from  her  hair  and 
her  skirts,  her  face  and  hands  benumbed 
with  cold,  but  with  every  nerve  strung  to 
the  highest  tension  and  every  faculty  alert 
to  meet  whatever  danger  might  present  it 
self,  Polly  struggled  up  the  mountain  path, 
feeling  her  way  as  best  she  could,  and  pull 
ing  herself  along  by  the  aid  of  the  friendly 
saplings  and  the  overhanging  trees. 

After  a  while  —  and  it  seemed  a  long 
while  to  Polly,  contending  with  the  fierce 
forces  of  the  night  and  beset  by  a  thousand 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  73 

doubts  and  fears  —  she  could  hear  Spurlock's 
dogs  barking.  What  if  the  two  soldiers, 
suspecting  her  mission,  had  mounted  their 
horses  and  outstripped  her?  She  had  no 
time  to  remember  the  difficulties  of  the 
mountain  road,  nor  did  she  know  that  she 
had  been  on  her  journey  not  more  than  half 
an  hour.  She  was  too  excited  either  to  rea 
son  or  to  calculate.  Gathering  her  skirts 
in  her  hands  as  she  rose  to  the  level  of  the 
clearing,  Polly  rushed  across  it  towards  the 
little  cabin,  tore  open  the  frail  little  gate, 
and  flung  herself  against  the  door  with  a 
force  that  shook  the  house. 

Old  Mrs.  Spurlock  was  spinning,  while  Is 
rael  carded  the  rolls  for  her.  The  noise 
that  Polly  made  against  the  door  startled 
them  both.  The  thread  broke  in  Mrs. 
Spurlock's  hand,  and  one  part  of  it  curled 
itself  on  the  end  of  the  broach  with  a  buzz 
that  whirled  it  into  a  fantastically  tangled 
mass.  The  cards  dropped  from  Israel's 
hands  with  a  clatter  that  added  to  his  mo 
ther's  excitement. 

"  Did  anybody  ever  hear  the  beat  of 
that  ? "  she  exclaimed.  "  Run,  Iserl,  an' 
see  what  it  is  that 's  a-tryin'  to  tear  the  roof 
off  'n  the  house," 


74  A  CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

Israel  did  not  need  to  be  told,  nor  did 
Mrs.  Spurlock  wait  for  him  to  go*.  They 
reached  the  door  together,  and  when  Israel 
threw  it  open  they  saw  Polly  Powers  stand 
ing  there,  pale,  trembling,  and  dripping. 

"  Polly  !  "  cried  Israel,  taking  her  by  the 
arm.  He  could  say  no  more. 

"  In  the  name  er  the  Lord!  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Spurlock,  "  wher'  'd  you  drop  from  ? 
You  look  more  like  a  drownded  ghost  than 
you  does  like  folks.  Come  right  in  here  an' 
dry  yourse'f.  What  in  the  name  of  mercy 
brung  you  out  in  sech  weather?  Who's 
dead  or  a-dyin'  ?  Why,  look  at  the  gal !  " 
Mrs.  Spurlock  went  on  in  a  louder  tone,  see 
ing  that  Polly  stood  staring  at  them  with 
wide-open  eyes,  her  face  as  pale  as  death. 

"  Have  they  come  ?  "  gasped  Polly. 

"  Listen  at  'er,  Iserl !  I  b'lieve  in  my 
soul  she's  done  gone  an'  run  ravin'  dees- 
tracted.  Shake  'er,  Iserl ;  shake  'er." 

For  answer  Polly  dropped  forward  into 
Mrs.  Spurlock's  arms,  all  wet  as  she  was, 
and  there  fell  to  crying  in  a  way  that  was 
quite  alarming  to  Israel,  who  was  not  fa 
miliar  with  feminine  peculiarities.  Mrs. 
Spurlock  soothed  Polly  as  she  would  have 
soothed  a  baby,  and  half  carried,  half  led 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  75 

her  to  the  fireplace.  Israel,  who  was  stand 
ing  around  embarrassed  and  perplexed,  was 
driven  out  of  the  room,  and  soon  Polly  was 
decked  out  in  dry  clothes.  These  "  duds," 
as  Mrs.  Spurlock  called  them,  were  ill-fitting 
and  ungraceful,  but  in  Israel's  eyes  the  girl 
was  just  as  beautiful  as  ever.  She  was  even 
more  beautiful  when,  fully  recovered  from 
her  excitement,  she  told  with  sparkling  eyes 
and  heightened  color  the  story  she  had  to 
tell. 

Mrs.  Spurlock  listened  with  the  keenest 
interest,  and  with  many  an  exclamation  of 
indignation,  while  Israel  heard  it  with  undis 
guised  admiration  for  the  girl.  He  seemed 
to  enjoy  the  whole  proceeding,  and  when 
Polly  in  the  ardor  and  excitement  of  her 
narration  betrayed  an  almost  passionate  in 
terest  in  his  probable  fate,  he  rubbed  his 
hands  slowly  together  and  laughed  softly  to 
himself. 

"  An'  jest  to  think,"  exclaimed  Polly, 
when  she  had  finished  her  story,  "  that  that 
there  good-for-nothin'  Wesley  Lovejoy  had 
the  imperdence  to  ast  me  to  have  him  no 
longer  'n  last  year,  an'  he 's  been  a-flyin' 
round  me  constant." 

"  I  seed  him  a-droppin'  his  wing,"   said 


76  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

Israel,  laughing.  "  I  reckon  that 's  the  rea 
son  he  's  after  me  so  hot.  But  never  you 
mind,  mammy ;  you  thes  look  after  the  gal 
that 's  gwine  to  be  your  daughter-in-law,  an* 
I  '11  look  after  your  son." 

"  Go  off,  you  goose !  "  cried  Polly,  blush 
ing  and  smiling.  "  Ef  they  hang  you,  whose 
daughter-in-law  will  I  be  then  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  knows !  "  exclaimed  Israel, 
with  mock  seriousness.  "  They  tell  me  that 
Love  joy  is  an  orphan  !  " 

"  You  must  be  crazy,"  cried  Polly,  indig 
nantly.  "  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  'd  marry 
that  creetur.  I  would  n't  look  at  him  if  he 
was  the  last  man.  You  better  be  thinkin' 
about  your  goozle." 

"  It 's  ketchin'  befo'  hangin',"  said  Israel, 

"  They  've  mighty  nigh  got  you  now," 
said  Polly.  Just  then  a  hickory  nut  dropped 
on  the  roof  of  the  house,  and  the  noise 
caused  the  girl  to  start  up  with  an  exclama 
tion  of  terror. 

"  You  thought  they  had  me  then,"  said 
Israel,  as  he  rose  and  stood  before  the  fire, 
rubbing  his  hands  together,  and  seeming  to 
enjoy  most  keenly  the  warm  interest  the 
girl  manifested  in  his  welfare. 

"  Oh,  I  wishtyou  'd  cut  an'  run,"  pleaded 


A    CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  77 

Polly,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands ; 
"  they  '11  be  here  therreckly." 

Israel  was  not  a  bad-looking  fellow  as  he 
stood  before  the  fire  laughing.  He  was  a 
very  agreeable  variation  of  the  mountain 
type.  He  was  angular,  but  neither  stoop- 
shouldered  nor  cadaverous.  He  was  awk 
ward  in  his  manners,  but  very  gracefully 
fashioned.  In  point  of  fact,  as  Mrs.  Pow 
ers  often  remarked,  Israel  was  "  not  to  be 
sneezed  at." 

After  a  while  he  became  thoughtful.  "  I 
jest  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  kicking  the 
chunks  vigorously,  and  sending  little  sparks 
of  fire  skipping  and  cracking  about  the 
room.  "  This  business  puzzles  me  —  I  jest 
tell  you  it  does.  That  Wes.  Lovejoy  done 
like  he  was  the  best  friend  I  had.  He  was 
constantly  huntin'  me  up  in  camp,  an'  when 
I  told  him  I  would  like  to  come  home  an' 
git  mammy's  crap  in,  he  jest  laughed  an' 
said  he  did  n't  reckon  I  'd  be  missed  much, 
an'  now  he's  a-houndin'  me  down.  What 
has  the  man  got  agin  me  ?  " 

Polly  knew,  but  she  didn't  say.  Mrs. 
Spurlock  suspected,  but  she  made  no  effort 
to  enlighten  Israel.  Polly  knew  that  Love- 
joy  was  animated  by  blind  jealousy,  and  her 


78  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

instinct  taught  her  that  a  jealous  man  is 
usually  a  dangerous  one.  Taking  advantage 
of  one  of  the  privileges  of  her  sex,  she  had 
at  one  time  carried  on  a  tremendous  flirta 
tion  with  Lovejoy.  She  had  intended  to 
amuse  herself  simply,  but  she  had  kindled 
fires  she  was  powerless  to  quench.  Lovejoy 
had  taken  her  seriously,  and  she  knew  well 
enough  that  he  regarded  Israel  Spurlock  as 
a  rival.  She  had  reason  to  suspect,  too, 
that  Lovejoy  had  pointed  out  Israel  to  the 
conscript  officers,  and  that  the  same  influ 
ence  was  controlling  and  directing  the  pur 
suit  now  going  on. 

Under  the  circumstances,  her  concern  — 
her  alarm,  indeed  —  was  natural.  She  and 
Israel  had  been  sweethearts  for  years, — 
real  sure -enough  sweethearts,  as  she  ex 
pressed  it  to  her  grandfather,  —  and  they 
were  to  be  married  in  a  short  while  ;  just  as 
soon,  in  fact,  as  the  necessary  preliminaries 
of  clothes-making  and  cake-baking  could  be 
disposed  of.  She  thought  nothing  of  her 
feat  of  climbing  the  mountain  in  the  bitter 
cold  and  the  overwhelming  rain.  She  would 
have  taken  much  larger  risks  than  that ; 
she  would  have  faced  any  danger  her  mind 
could  conceive  of.  And  Israel  appreciated 


A  CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS.  79 

it  all;  nay,  he  fairly  gloated  over  it.  He 
stood  before  the  fire  fairly  hugging  the  fact 
to  his  bosom.  His  face  glowed,  and  his 
whole  attitude  was  one  of  exultation;  and 
with  it,  shaping  every  gesture  and  move 
ment,  was  a  manifestation  of  fearlessness 
which  was  all  the  more  impressive  because 
it  was  unconscious. 

This  had  a  tendency  to  fret  Polly,  whose 
alarm  for  Israel's  safety  was  genuine. 

"  Oh,  I  do  wisht  you  'd  go  on,"  she  cried  ; 
"  them  men  '11  shorely  ketch  you  ef  you  keep 
on  a-stayin'  here  a-winkin'  an'  a-gwine  on 
makin'  monkey  motions." 

"Shoo!"  exclaimed  Israel.  "  Ef  the 
house  was  surrounded  by  forty  thousan'  of 
'em,  I  'd  git  by  'em,  an',  ef  need  be,  take 
you  wi'  me." 

While  they  were  talking  the  dogs  began 
to  bark.  At  the  first  sound  Polly  rose  from 
her  chair  with  her  arms  outstretched,  but 
fell  back  pale  and  trembling.  Israel  had 
disappeared  as  if  by  magic,  and  Mrs.  Spur- 
lock  was  calmly  lighting  her  pipe  by  fill 
ing  it  with  hot  embers.  It  was  evidently  a 
false  alarm,  for,  after  a  while,  Israel  backed 
through  the  doorway  and  closed  the  door 
again  with  comical  alacrity. 


80  A  CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS. 

"  Sh-sh-sh !  "  lie  whispered,  with  a  warn 
ing  gesture,  seeing  that  Polly  was  about  to 
protest.  "  Don't  make  no  fuss.  The  dogs 
has  been  a-barkin'  at  sperits  an'  things. 
Jest  keep  right  still." 

He  went  noiselessly  about  the  room,  pick 
ing  up  first  one  thing  and  then  another. 
Over  one  shoulder  he  flung  a  canteen,  and 
over  the  other  a  hunting-horn.  Into  his 
coat-pocket  he  thrust  an  old-fashioned  pow 
der-flask.  Meanwhile  his  mother  was  busy 
gathering  together  such  articles  as  Israel 
might  need.  His  rifle  she  placed  by  the 
door,  and  then  she  filled  a  large  homespun 
satchel  with  a  supply  of  victuals  —  a  baked 
fowl,  a  piece  of  smoked  beef,  and  a  big 
piece  of  light  bread.  These  preparations 
were  swiftly  and  silently  made.  When 
everything  seemed  to  be  ready  for  his  depar 
ture  Israel  presented  the  appearance  of  a 
peddler. 

"  I  'm  goin'  up  to  the  Rock,"  he  said,  by 
way  of  explanation,  "  an'  light  the  fire. 
Maybe  the  boys  '11  see  it,  an'  maybe  they 
won't.  Leastways  they  're  mighty  apt  to 
smell  the  smoke." 

Then,  without  further  farewell,  he  closed 
the  door  and  stepped  out  into  the  darkness, 


A  CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS.  81 

leaving  the  two  women  sitting  by  the  hearth. 
They  sat  there  for  hours,  gazing  into  the 
fire  and  scarcely  speaking  to  each  other. 
The  curious  reticence  that  seems  to  be  de 
veloped  and  assiduously  cultivated  by  the 
dwellers  on  the  mountains  took  possession 
of  them.  The  confidences  and  sympathies 
they  had  in  common  were  those  of  observa 
tion  and  experience,  rather  than  the  result 
of  an  interchange  of  views  and  opinions. 

Towards  morning  the  drizzling  rain 
ceased,  and  the  wind,  changing  its  direction, 
sent  the  clouds  flying  to  the  east,  whence 
they  had  come.  About  dawn,  Private  Chad- 
wick,  who  had  slept  most  soundly,  was 
aroused  by  the  barking  of  the  dogs,  and  got 
up  to  look  after  the  horses.  As  he  slipped 
quietly  out  of  the  house  he  saw  a  muffled 
figure  crossing  the  yard. 

"  Halt !  "  he  cried,  giving  the  challenge 
of  a  sentinel.  "  Who  goes  there  ?  " 

"  Nobody  ner  nothin'  that  '11  bite  you,  I 
reckon,"  was  the  somewhat  snappish  re 
sponse.  It  was  the  voice  of  Polly.  She 
was  looking  up  and  across  the  mountains  to 
where  a  bright  red  glare  was  reflected  on 
the  scurrying  clouds.  The  density  of  the 
atmosphere  was  such  that  the  movements  of 


82  A  CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

the  flames  were  photographed  on  the  clouds, 
rising  and  falling,  flaring  and  fading,  as 
though  the  dread  spirits  of  the  storm  were 
waving  their  terrible  red  banners  from  the 
mountain. 

"  What  can  that  be  ?  "  asked  Chadwick, 
after  he  had  watched  the  singular  spectacle 
a  moment. 

Polly  laughed  aloud,  almost  joyously.  She 
knew  it  was  Israel's  beacon.  She  knew 
that  these  red  reflections,  waving  over  the 
farther  spur  of  the  mountain  and  over  the 
valley  that  nestled  so  peacefully  below, 
would  summon  half  a  hundred  men  and 
boys  —  the  entire  congregation  of  Antioch 
Church,  where  her  father  was  in  the  habit 
of  holding  forth  on  the  first  Sunday  of  each 
month.  She  knew  that  Israel  was  safe,  and 
the  knowledge  restored  her  good  humor. 

"  What  did  you  say  it  was  ?  "  Chadwick 
inquired  again,  his  curiosity  insisting  on  an 
explanation. 

"  It 's  jest  a  fire,  I  reckon,"  Polly  calmly 
replied.  "  Ef  it 's  a  house  burnin'  down,  it 
can't  be  holp.  Water  could  n't  save  it 
now." 

Whereupon  she  pulled  the  shawl  from  over 
her  head,  tripped  into  the  house,  and  went 


A   CONSORIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  83 

about  preparing  breakfast,  singing  merrily. 
Chadwick  watched  her  as  she  passed  and  re- 
passed  from  the  rickety  kitchen  to  the  house, 
and  when  the  light  grew  clearer  he  thought 
he  saw  on  her  face  a  look  that  he  did  not 
understand.  It  was  indeed  an  inscrutable 
expression,  and  it  would  have  puzzled  a 
wiser  man  than  Chadwick.  He  chopped 
some  wood,  brought  some  water,  and  made 
himself  generally  useful;  but  he  received 
no  thanks  from  Polly.  She  ignored  him  as 
completely  as  if  he  had  never  existed. 

All  this  set  the  private  to  thinking.  Now 
a  man  who  reflects  much  usually  thinks 
out  a  theory  to  fit  everything  that  he  fails 
to  understand.  Chadwick  thought  out  his 
theory  while  the  girl  was  getting  breakfast 
ready. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  two  soldiers 
were  on  their  way  up  the  mountain,  nor  was 
it  long  before  Chadwick  began  to  unfold 
his  theory,  and  in  doing  so  he  managed  to 
straighten  it  by  putting  together  various  lit 
tle  facts  that  occurred  to  him  as  he  talked. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Captain,"  he  said,  as 
soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing ;  "  that  gal 's 
a  slick  'un.  It 's  my  belief  that  we  are 
gwine  on  a  fool's  errand.  'Stead  of  gwine 


84  A   CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS. 

towards  Spurlock,  we  're  gwine  straight 
away  from  'im.  When  that  gal  made  her 
disappearance  last  night  she  went  an'  found 
Spurlock,  an'  ef  he  ain't  a  natchul  born  fool 
he  tuck  to  the  woods.  Why,  the  shawl  the 
gal  had  on  her  head  this  mornin'  was  soakin' 
wet.  It  were  n't  rainin',  an'  had  n't  been 
for  a  right  smart  while.  How  come  the 
shawl  wet  ?  They  were  n't  but  one  way. 
It  got  wet  by  rubbin'  agin  the  bushes  an' 
the  limbs  er  the  trees." 

This  theory  was  plausible  enough  to  im 
press  itself  on  Captain  Moseley.  "  What 
is  to  be  done,  then  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  the  Lord  knows  what  ought  to  be 
done,"  said  Chadwick  ;  "  but  I  reckon  the 
best  plan  is  to  sorter  scatter  out  an'  skir 
mish  aroun'  a  little  bit.  We  'd  better  divide 
our  army.  You  go  up  the  mountain  an'  git 
Spurlock,  if  he  's  up  thar,  an'  let  me  take 
my  stan'  on  the  ridge  yander  an'  keep  my 
eye  on  Uncle  Billy's  back  yard  an'  hoss  lot. 
If  Spurlock  is  r'ally  tuck  to  the  woods-,  he  '11 
be  mighty  apt  to  be  slinkin'  'roun'  whar  the 
gal  is." 

Captain  Moseley  assented  to  this  plan, 
and  proceeded  to  put  it  in  execution  as  soon 
as  he  and  Chadwick  were  a  safe  distance 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  85 

from  Uncle  Billy  Powers's  house.  Chad- 
wick,  dismounting,  led  his  horse  along  a  cow- 
path  that  ran  at  right  angles  to  the  main 
road,  and  was  soon  lost  to  sight,  while  the 
captain  rode  forward  on  his  mission. 

Of  the  two,  as  it  turned  out,  the  captain 
had  much  the  more  comfortable  experience. 
He  reached  the  Spurlock  house  in  the  course 
of  three-quarters  of  an  hour. 

In  response  to  his  halloo  Mrs.  Spurlock 
came  to  the  door. 

"I  was  a-spinnin'  away  for  dear  life," 
she  remarked,  brushing  her  gray  hair  from 
her  face,  "  when  all  of  a  sudden  I  hearn  a 
fuss,  an'  I  'lows  ter  myself,  says  I,  4 1  '11  be 
boun'  that 's  some  one  a-hailin','  says  I ;  an' 
then  I  dropped  ever'thin'  an'  run  ter  the 
door  an'  shore  enough  it  was.  Won't  you 
'light  an'  come  in  ?  "  she  inquired  with  ready 
hospitality.  Her  tone  was  polite,  almost 
obsequious. 

"Is  Mr.  Israel  Spurlock  at  home?"  the 
captain  asked. 

"  Not,  as  you  might  say,  adzackly  at 
home,  but  I  reckon  in  reason  it  won't  be 
long  before  he  draps  in.  He  hain't  had  his 
breakfas'  yit,  though  hit 's  been  a-waitin'  for 
him  tell  hit 's  stone  col'.  The  cows  broke 


86  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

out  last  night,  an'  he  went  off  a-huntin'  of 
'em  time  it  was  light  good.  Iserl  is  thes  ez 
rank  after  his  milk  ez  some  folks  is  after 
the'r  dram.  I  says,  says  I,  'Shorely  you 
kin  do  'thout  your  milk  one  mornin'  in  the 
year  ; '  but  he  would  n't  nigh  hear  ter  that. 
He  thes  up  an'  bolted  off." 

"  I  '11  ride  on,"-  said  the  captain.  "  Maybe 
I  '11  meet  him  coming  back.  Good-by." 

It  was  an  uneventful  ride,  but  Captain 
Moseley  noted  one  curious  fact.  He  had 
not  proceeded  far  when  he  met  two  men 
riding  down  the  mountain.  Each  carried  a 
rifle  flung  across  his  saddle  in  front  of  him. 
They  responded  gravely  to  the  captain's  sal 
utation. 

"Have  you  seen  Israel  Spurlock  this 
morning  ?  "  he  asked. 

"No,  sir,  I  hain't  saw  him,"  answered 
one.  The  other  shook  his  head.  Then 
they  rode  on  down  the  mountain. 

A  little  farther  on  Captain  Moseley  met 
four  men.  These  were  walking,  but  each 
was  armed  —  three  with  rifles,  and  one  with 
a  shot-gun.  They  had  not  seen  Spurlock. 
At  intervals  he  met  more  than  a  dozen  — 
some  riding  and  some  walking,  but  all 
armed.  At  last  he  met  two  that  presented 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  87 

something  of  a  contrast  to  the  others.  They 
were  armed,  it  is  true ;  but  they  were  laugh 
ing  and  singing  as  they  went  along  the  road, 
and  while  they  had  not  seen  Spurlock  with 
their  own  eyes,  as  they  said,  they  knew  he 
must  be  farther  up  the  mountain,  for  they 
had  heard  of  him  as  they  came  along. 

Riding  and  winding  around  upward,  Cap 
tain  Moseley  presently  saw  a  queer-looking 
little  chap  coming  towards  him.  The  little 
man  had  a  gray  beard,  and  as  he  walked  he 
had  a  movement  like  a  camel.  Like  a 
camel,  too,  he  had  a  great  hump  on  his  back. 
His  legs  were  as  long  as  any  man's,  but  his 
whole  body  seemed  to  be  contracted  in  his 
hump.  He  was  very  spry,  too,  moving 
along  as  active  as  a  boy,  and  there  was  an 
elfish  expression  on  his  face  such  as  one 
sees  in  old  picture-books  —  a  cunning,  leer 
ing  expression,  which  yet  had  for  its  basis 
the  element  of  humor.  The  little  man  car 
ried  a  rifle  longer  than  himself,  which  he 
flourished  about  with  surprising  ease  and 
dexterity  —  practicing  apparently  some  new 
and  peculiar  manual. 

"Have  you  seen  Israel  Spurlock?"  in 
quired  Captain  Moseley,  reining  in  his 
horse. 


88  A   CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS. 

"  Yes !  Oh,  yes !  Goodness  gracious, 
yes !  "  replied  the  little  man,  grinning  good- 
naturedly. 

"  Where  is  he  now?  "  asked  the  captain. 

"All  about.  Yes!  All  around!  Gra 
cious,  yes !  "  responded  the  little  man,  with 
a  sweeping  gesture  that  took  in  the  whole 
mountain.  Then  he  seemed  to  be  searching 
eagerly  in  the  road  for  something.  Sud 
denly  pausing,  he  exclaimed  :  "  Here  's  his 
track  right  now !  Oh,  yes !  Right  fresh, 
too !  Goodness,  yes  !  " 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  Moseley  asked, 
smiling  at  the  antics  of  the  little  man,  their 
nimbleness  being  out  of  all  proportion  to 
his  deformity. 

For  answer  the  little  man  whirled  his 
rifle  over  his  hump  and  under  his  arm,  and 
caught  it  as  it  went  flying  into  the  air. 
Then  he  held  it  at  a  "  ready,"  imitating 
the  noise  of  the  lock  with  his  mouth,  took 
aim  and  made  believe  to  fire,  all  with  inde 
scribable  swiftness  and  precision.  Captain 
Moseley  rode  on  his  way  laughing;  but, 
laugh  as  he  would,  he  could  not  put  out  of 
his  mind  the  queer  impression  the  little  man 
had  made  on  him,  nor  could  he  rid  himself 
of  a  feeling  of  uneasiness.  Taking  little 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  89 

notice  of  the  landmarks  that  ordinarily  at 
tract  the  notice  of  the  traveler  in  a  strange 
country,  he  suddenly  found  himself  riding 
along  a  level  stretch  of  tableland.  The 
transformation  was  complete.  The  country 
roads  seemed  to  cross  and  recross  here, 
coming  and  going  in  every  direction.  He 
rode  by  a  little  house  that  stood  alone  in  the 
level  wood,  and  he  rightly  judged  it  to  be  a 
church.  He  drew  rein  and  looked  around 
him.  Everything  was  unfamiliar.  In  the 
direction  from  which  he  supposed  he  had 
come,  a  precipice  rose  sheer  from  the  table 
land  more  than  three  hundred  feet.  At  that 
moment  he  heard  a  shout,  and  looking  up 
he  beheld  the  hunchback  flourishing  his 
long  rifle  and  cutting  his  queer  capers. 

The  situation  was  so  puzzling  that  Cap 
tain  Moseley  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes, 
as  if  to  brush  away  a  scene  that  confused 
his  mind  and  obstructed  his  vision.  He 
turned  his  horse  and  rode  back  the  way  he 
had  come,  but  it  seemed  to  be  so  unfamiliar 
that  he  chose  another  road,  and  in  the 
course  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was  com 
pelled  to  acknowledge  that  he  was  lost. 
Everything  appeared  to  be  turned  around, 
even  the  little  church. 


90  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

Meanwhile  Private  Chadwick  was  having 
an  experience  of  his  own.  In  parting  from 
Captain  Moseley  he  led  his  horse  through 
the  bushes,  following  for  some  distance  a 
cow-path.  This  semblance  of  a  trail  termi 
nated  in  a  "  blind  path,"  and  this  Chadwick 
followed  as  best  he  could,  picking  his  way 
cautiously  and  choosing  ground  over  which 
his  horse  could  follow.  He  had  to  be  very 
careful.  There  were  no  leaves  on  the  trees, 
and  the  undergrowth  was  hardly  thick 
enough  to  conceal  him  from  the  keen  eyes 
of  the  mountaineers.  Finally  he  tied  his 
horse  in  a  thicket  of  black-jacks,  where  he 
had  the  whole  of  Uncle  Billy  Powers's  little 
farm  under  his  eye.  His  position  was  not 
an  uncomfortable  one.  Sheltered  from  the 
wind,  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  sit  on  a  huge 
chestnut  log  and  ruminate,  and  make  a  note 
of  the  comings  and  goings  on  Uncle  Billy's 
premises. 

Sitting  thus,  Chadwick  fell  to  thinking ; 
thinking,  he  fell  into  a  doze.  He  caught 
himself  nodding  more  than  once,  and  up 
braided  himself  bitterly.  Still  he  nodded 
—  he,  a  soldier  on  duty  at  his  post.  How 
long  he  slept  he  could  not  tell,  but  he  sud 
denly  awoke  to  find  himself  dragged  back- 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  91 

ward  from  the  log  by  strong  hands.  He 
would  have  made  some  resistance,  for  he 
was  a  fearless  man  at  heart  and  a  tough 
one  to  handle  in  a  knock-down  and  drag-out 
tussle  ;  but  resistance  was  useless.  He  had 
been  taken  at  a  disadvantage,  and  before  he 
could  make  a  serious  effort  in  his  own  be 
half,  he  was  lying  flat  on  his  back,  with  his 
hands  tied,  and  as  helpless  as  an  infant. 
He  looked  up  and  discovered  that  his  captor 
was  Israel  Spurlock. 

"  Well,  blame  my  scaly  hide  !  "  exclaimed 
Chadwick,  making  an  involuntary  effort  to 
free  his  hands.  "  You  're  the  identical  man 
I'm  a-huntin'." 

"  An'  now  you  're  sorry  you  went  an' 
foun'  me,  I  reckon,"  said  Israel. 

"Well,  I  ain't  as  glad  as  I  'lowed  I'd 
be,"  said  Chadwick.  "  Yit  nuther  am  I  so 
mighty  sorry.  One  way  or  'nother  I  knowed 
in  reason  I  'd  run  up  on  you." 

"  You  're  mighty  right,"  responded  Israel, 
smiling  not  ill-naturedly.  "  You  fell  in  my 
arms  same  as  a  gal  in  a  honeymoon. 
Lemme  lift  you  up,  as  the  mule  said  when 
he  kicked  the  nigger  over  the  fence.  Maybe 
you'll  look  purtier  when  you  swap  een's." 
Thereupon  Israel  helped  Chadwick  to  his 
feet. 


92  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

"  You  ketched  me  that  time,  certain  and 
shore,"  said  the  latter,  looking  at  Spurlock 
and  laughing ;  "  they  ain't  no  two  ways 
about  that.  I  was  a-settin'  on  the  log  thar, 
a-noddin'  an'  a-dreaniin'  'bout  Christmas. 
'T  ain't  many  days  off,  I  reckon." 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  exclaimed  Spurlock,  sarcas 
tically  ;  "  a  mighty  purty  dream,  I  bet  a 
hoss.  You  was  fixin'  up  for  to  cram  me  in 
Lovejoy's  stockin'.  A  mighty  nice  present 
I  'd  'a'  been,  tooby  shore.  Stidder  hangin' 
up  his  stockin',  Lovejoy  was  a-aimin'  for  to 
hang  me  up.  Oh,  yes !  Christmas  dreams 
is  so  mighty  nice  an'  fine,  I  'in  a  great  min' 
to  set  right  down  here  an'  have  one  er  my 
own  —  one  of  them  kin'  er  dreams  what's 
got  forked  tail  an'  fireworks  mixed  up  on  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Chadwick,  with  some  seri 
ousness,  "  whose  stockin'  is  you  a-gwine  to 
cram  me  in  ?  " 

"  In  whose  else's  but  Danny  Lemmons's  ? 
An'  won't  he  holler  an'  take  on  ?  Why,  I 
would  n't  miss  seein'  Danny  Lemmons  take 
on  for  a  hat  full  er  shinplasters.  Dang  my 
buttons  ef  I  would !  " 

Chadwick  looked  at  his  captor  with  some 
curiosity.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  ill-feel 
ing  or  bad  humor  in  Spurlock's  tone,  nor  in 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  93 

his  attitude.  The  situation  was  so  queer 
that  it  was  comical,  and  Chadwick  laughed 
aloud  as  he  thought  about  it.  In  this  Spur- 
lock  heartily  joined  him,  and  the  situation 
would  have  seemed  doubly  queer  to  a 
passer-by  chancing  along  and  observing  cap 
tor  and  prisoner  laughing  and  chatting  so 
amiably  together. 

"  Who,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  is  Danny 
Lemmons  ?  " 

"  Lord !  "  exclaimed  Spurlock,  lifting 
both  hands,  "  don't  ast  me  about  Danny 
Lemmons.  He  's  —  he 's  —  well,  I  tell  you 
what,  he  's  the  bull  er  the  woods,  Danny 
Lemmons  is ;  nuther  more  ner  less.  He 
hain't  bigger  'n  my  two  fists,  an'  he's  'flict- 
ed,  an'  he  's  all  crippled  up  in  his  back, 
whar  he  had  it  broke  when  he  was  a  baby, 
an'  yit  he's  in-about  the  peartest  man  on 
the  mountain,  an'  he 's  the  toughest  an'  the 
sooplest.  An'  more  'n  that,  he  's  got  them 
things  up  here,"  Spurlock  went  on,  tapping 
his  head  significantly.  Chadwick  under 
stood  this  to  mean  that  Lemmons,  whatever 
might  be  his  afflictions,  had  brains  enough 
and  to  spare. 

There  was  a  pause  in  the   conversation, 
and  then  Chadwick,  looking  at  his  bound 


94  A   CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS. 

wrists,  which  were  beginning  to  chafe  and 
swell,  spoke  up. 

"  What 's  your  will  wi'  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,"  said  Spurlock,  rising  to  his  feet, 
"  I  'm  a-gwine  to  empty  your  gun,  an'  tote 
your  pistol  for  you,  an'  invite  you  down  to 
Uncle  Billy's.  Oh,  you  need  n't  worry," 
he  went  on,  observing  Chadwick's  disturbed 
expression,  "  they  're  expectin'  of  you. 
Polly  's  tol'  'em  you  'd  likely  come  back." 

"  How  did  Polly  know  ?  "  Chadwick  in 
quired. 

"  Danny  Lemmons  tol'  'er." 

"By  George!"  exclaimed  Chadwick, 
"  the  woods  is  full  of  Danny  Lemmons." 

"  Why,  bless  your  heart,"  said  Spurlock, 
"  he  thes  swarms  roun'  here." 

After  Spurlock  had  taken  the  precaution 
to  possess  himself  of  Chadwick's  arms  and 
ammunition,  he  cut  the  cords  that  bound 
his  prisoner's  hands,  and  the  two  went  down 
the  mountain,  chatting  as  pleasantly  and  as 
sociably  as  two  boon  companions.  Chad 
wick  found  no  lack  of  hospitality  at  Uncle 
Billy  Powers's  house.  His  return  was  taken 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  he  was  made  wel 
come.  Nevertheless,  his  entertainers  be 
trayed  a  spirit  of  levity  that  might  have  ir 
ritated  a  person  less  self-contained. 


A  CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  95 

"  I  see  he 's  ketched  you,  Iserl,"  remarked 
Uncle  Billy,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  He 
'lowed  las'  night  as  how  he  'd  fetch  you  back 
wi'  him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Israel,  "  he  thes  crope  up  on 
me.  It's  mighty  hard  for  to  fool  these 
army  fellers." 

Then  and  afterward  the  whole  family  pre 
tended  to  regard  Spurlock  as  Chad  wick's 
prisoner.  This  was  not  a  joke  for  the  latter 
to  relish,  but  it  was  evidently  not  intended 
to  be  offensive,  and  he  could  do  no  less  than 
humor  it.  He  accepted  the  situation  phil 
osophically.  He  even  prepared  himself  to 
relish  Captain  Moseley's  astonishment  when 
he  returned  and  discovered  the  true  state  of 
affairs.  As  the  day  wore  away  it  occurred 
to  Chadwick  that  the  captain  was  in  no 
hurry  to  return.  Even  Uncle  Billy  Powers 
grew  uneasy. 

"  Now,  I  do  hope  an'  trust  he  ain't  gone 
an'  lost  his  temper  up  thar  in  the  woods," 
remarked  Uncle  Billy.  "  I  hope  it  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart.  These  here  wars 
an'  rumors  of  wars  makes  the  folks  mighty 
restless.  They  '11  take  resks  now  what  they 
would  n't  dassent  to  of  tuck  before  this  here 
rippit  begun,  an'  it 's  done  got  so  now  human 


96  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

life  ain't  wuth  shucks.  The  boys  up  here 
ain't  no  better 'n  the  rest.  They  fly  to 
pieces  quicker  'n  they  ever  did. " 

No  trouble,  however,  had  come  to  Cap 
tain  Moseley.  Though  he  was  confused  in 
his  bearings,  he  was  as  serene  and  as  unruf 
fled  as  when  training  a  company  of  raw  con 
scripts  in  the  art  of  war.  After  an  unsuc 
cessful  attempt  to  find  the  road  he  gave  his 
horse  the  rein,  and  that  sensible  animal,  his 
instinct  sharpened  by  remembrance  of  Un 
cle  Billy  Powers's  corn-crib  and  fodder, 
moved  about  at  random  until  he  found  that 
he  was  really  at  liberty  to  go  where  he 
pleased,  and  then  he  turned  short  about, 
struck  a  little  canter,  and  was  soon  going 
down  the  road  by  which  he  had  come.  The 
captain  was  as  proud  of  this  feat  as  if  it 
were  due  to  his  own  intelligence,  and  he 
patted  the  horse's  neck  in  an  approving 
way. 

As  Captain  Moseley  rode  down  the  moun 
tain,  reflecting,  it  occurred  to  him  that  his 
expedition  was  taking  a  comical  shape.  He 
had  gone  marching  up  the  hill,  and  now  he 
came  inarching  down  again,  and  Israel  Spur- 
lock,  so  far  as  the  captain  knew,  was  as  far 
from  being  a  captive  as  ever  —  perhaps  far- 


A    CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  97 

ther.  Thinking  it  all  over  in  a  somewhat 
irritated  frame  of  mind,  Moseley  remem 
bered  Lovejoy's  eagerness  to  recapture 
Spurlock.  He  remembered,  also,  what  he 
had  heard  the  night  before,  and  it  was  in  no 
pleasant  mood  that  he  thought  it  all  over. 
It  was  such  an  insignificant,  such  a  despica 
ble  affair,  two  men  carrying  out  the  jealous 
whim  of  a  little  militia  politician. 

"  It  is  enough,  by  George !  "  exclaimed 
Captain  Moseley  aloud,  "  to  make  a  sensi 
ble  man  sick." 

44  Lord,  yes !  "  cried  out  a  voice  behind 
him.  Looking  around,  he  saw  the  hunch 
back  following  him.  "  That's  what  I  tell 
'em  ;  goodness,  yes !  " 

"  Now,  look  here !  "  said  Captain  Mose 
ley,  reining  in  his  horse,  and  speaking  some 
what  sharply.  "  Are  you  following  me,  or 
am  I  following  you  ?  I  don't  want  to  be 
dogged  after  in  the  bushes,  much  less  in  the 
big  road." 

"Ner  me  nurther,"  said  the  hunchback, 
in  the  cheerfulest  manner.  "  An'  then 
thar's  Spurlock  —  Lord,  yes  ;  I  hain't  axt 
him  about  it,  but  I  bet  a  hoss  he  don't  like 
to  be  dogged  atter  nuther." 

"  My  friend,"  said  Captain  Moseley,  "  you 


98  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

seem  to  have  a  quick  tongue.  What  is  your 
name?" 

"  Danny  Lemmons,"  said  the  other. 
"  Now  don't  say  I  look  like  I  ought  to  be 
squoze.  Ever 'body  inginer'lly  says  that," 
he  went  on  with  a  grimace,  "  but  I  've 
squoze  lots  more  than  what's  ever  squoze  me. 
Lord,  yes!  Yes,  siree!  Men  an'  gals  ter- 
gether.  You  ax  'em,  an'  they  '11  tell  you." 

"  Lemmons,"  said  the  captain,  repeating 
the  name  slowly.  "  Well,  you  look  it !  " 

"  Boo !  "  cried  Danny  Lemmons,  making 
a  horrible  grimace;  "you  don't  know  what 
you  're  a-talkin'  about.  The  gals  all  'low 
I  'm  mighty  sweet.  You  ought  to  see  me 
when  I  'm  rigged  out  in  my  Sunday-go-to- 
meetin'  duds.  Polly  Powers  she  'lows  I 
look  snatchin'.  Lord,  yes !  Yes,  siree !  I  'm 
gwine  down  to  Polly's  house  now." 

Whereat  he  broke  out  singing,  para 
phrasing  an  old  negro  ditty,  and  capering 
about  in  the  woods  like  mad. 

Oh,  I  went  down  to  Polly's  house, 

An'  she  was  not  at  home ; 
I  set  myself  in  the  big  arm-cheer 

An'  beat  on  the  ol'  jaw-bone. 
Oh,  rise  up,  Polly  !     Slap  'im  on  the  jaw, 

An  hit  'im  in  the  eyeball  —  bim !  " 

The     song     finished,    Danny    Lemmons 


A   CONSCRIPT'S  CHRISTMAS.  99 

walked  on  down  the  road  ahead  of  the  horse 
in  the  most  unconcerned  manner.  It  was 
part  of  Captain  Moseley's  plan  to  stop  at 
Mrs.  Spurlock's  and  inquire  for  Israel. 
This  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  Danny's  plan 
also,  for  he  turned  out  of  the  main  road  and 
went  ahead,  followed  by  the  captain.  There 
were  quite  a  number  of  men  at  Mrs.  Spur- 
lock's  when  Moseley  rode  up,  and  he  noticed 
that  all  were  armed.  Some  were  standing 
listlessly  about,  leaning  against  the  trees, 
some  were  sitting  in  various  postures,  and 
others  were  squatting  around  whittling  :  but 
all  had  their  guns  within  easy  reach.  Mrs. 
Spurlock  was  walking  about  among  them 
smoking  her  pipe.  By  the  strained  and 
awkward  manner  of  the  men  as  they  re 
turned  his  salutation,  or  by  some  subtle  in 
stinct  he  could  not  explain,  Captain  Mose 
ley  knew  that  these  men  were  waiting  for 
him,  and  that  he  was  their  prisoner.  The 
very  atmosphere  seemed  to  proclaim  the 
fact.  Under  his  very  eyes  Danny  Lemmons 
changed  from  a  grinning  buffoon  into  a 
quiet,  self-contained  man  trained  to  the 
habit  of  command.  Recognizing  the  situa 
tion,  the  old  soldier  made  the  most  of  it  by 
retaining  his  good  humor. 


100          A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

"  Well,  boys,"  he  said,  flinging  a  leg  over 
the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  "  I  hope  you  are 
not  tired  waiting  for  me."  The  men  ex 
changed  glances  in  a  curious,  shame-faced 
sort  of  way. 

"  No,"  said  one ;  "  we  was  thes  a-settin' 
here  talkin'  'bout  ol'  times.  We  'lowed 
maybe  you  'd  sorter  git  tangled  up  on  the 
hill  thar,  and  so  Danny  Lemmons,  he  harked 
back  for  to  keep  a'  eye  on  you." 

There  was  no  disposition  on  the  part  of 
this  quiet  group  of  men  to  be  clamorous  or 
boastful.  There  was  a  certain  shyness  in 
their  attitude,  as  of  men  willing  to  apologize 
for  what  might  seem  to  be  unnecessary  rude 
ness. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,"  said  Danny  Lem 
mons,  "they  ain't  a  man  on  the  mounting 
that 's  got  a  blessed  thing  agin  you,  ner  agin 
the  tother  feller,  an'  they  hain't  a  man  any 
wheres  aroun'  here  that 's  a-gwine  to  pester 
you.  We  never  brung  you  whar  you  is ; 
but  now  that  you  're  here  we  're  a-gwine  to 
whirl  in  an'  ast  you  to  stay  over  an'  take 
Christmas  wi'  us,  sech  ez  we  '11  have.  Lord, 
yes !  a  nice  time  we  '11  have,  ef  I  ain't  for 
got  how  to  finger  the  fiddle-strings.  We  're 
sorter  in  a  quandary,"  Danny  Lemmons 


A  CONSCRIPT'S  CHlfl£TJKA9. 

continued,  observing  Captain  Moseley  toy 
ing  nervously  with  the  handle  of  his  pistol. 
"  We  don't  know  whether  you  're  a-gwine 
to  be  worried  enough  to  start  a  row,  or 
whether  you  're  a-gwine  to  work  up  trou 
ble." 

Meanwhile  Danny  had  brought  his  long 
rifle  into  a  position  where  it  could  be  used 
promptly  and  effectually.  For  answer  Mose 
ley  dismounted  from  his  horse,  unbuckled 
his  belt  and  flung  it  across  his  saddle,  and 
prepared  to  light  his  pipe. 

"Now,  then,"  said  Danny  Lemmons, 
"  thes  make  yourself  at  home." 

Nothing  could  have  been  friendlier  than 
the  attitude  of  the  mountain  men,  nor  freer 
than  their  talk.  Captain  Moseley  learned 
that  Danny  Lemmons  was  acting  under  the 
orders  of  Colonel  Dick  Watson,  the  virile 
paralytic  ;  that  he  and  Chadwick  were  to  be 
held  prisoners  in  the  hope  that  Adjutant 
Lovejoy  would  come  in  search  of  them  —  in 
which  event  there  would  be  developments  of 
a  most  interesting  character. 

So  Danny  Lemmons  said,  and  so  it  turned 
out ;  for  one  day  while  Moseley  and  Chad- 
wick  were  sitting  on  the  sunny  side  of  Un 
cle  Billy's  house,  listening  to  the  shrill,  snarl- 


102          A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

ing  tones  of  Colonel  Watson,  they  heard  a 
shout  from  the  roadside,  and  behold,  there 
was  Danny  Lemmons  with  his  little  band 
escorting  Lovejoy  and  a  small  squad  of  for 
lorn-looking  militia.  Lovejoy  was  securely 
bound  to  his  horse,  and  it  may  well  be  sup 
posed  that  he  did  not  cut  an  imposing  figure. 
Yet  he  was  undaunted.  He  was  captured, 
but  not  conquered.  His  eyes  never  lost 
their  boldness,  nor  his  tongue  its  bitterness. 
He  was  almost  a  match  for  Colonel  Watson, 
who  raved  at  all  things  through  the  tremu 
lous  and  vindictive  lips  of  disease.  The 
colonel's  temper  was  fitful,  but  Love  joy's 
seemed  to  burn  steadily.  Moved  by  con 
tempt  rather  than  caution,  he  was  economi 
cal  of  his  words,  listening  to  the  shrill  in 
vective  of  the  colonel  patiently,  but  with  a 
curious  flicker  of  his  thin  lips  that  caused 
Danny  Lemmons  to  study  him  intently.  It 
was  Danny  who  discovered  that  Lovejoy's 
eyes  never  wandered  in  Polly's  direction, 
nor  settled  on  her,  nor  seemed  to  perceive 
that  she  was  in  existence,  though  she  was 
flitting  about  constantly  on  the  aimless  little 
errands  that  keep  a  conscientious  house 
keeper  busy. 

Lovejoy  was  captured   one  morning  and 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.          103 

Christmas  fell  the  next,  and  it  was  a 
memorable  Christmas  to  all  concerned. 
After  breakfast  Uncle  Billy  Powers  pro 
duced  his  Bible  and  preached  a  little  sermon 
—  a  sermon  that  was  not  the  less  meaty  and 
sincere,  not  the  less  wise  and  powerful,  be 
cause  the  English  was  ungrammatical  and 
the  rhetoric  uncouth.  After  it  was  over  the 
old  man  cleared  his  throat  and  remarked :  — 

"  Brethern,  we  're  gethered  here  for  to 
praise  the  Lord  an'  do  his  will.  The  quare 
times  that 's  come  on  us  has  brung  us  face 
to  face  with  much  that  is  unseemly  in  life, 
an'  likely  to  fret  the  sperit  an'  vex  the  un- 
derstandin'.  Yit  the  Almighty  is  with  us, 
an'  of  us,  an'  among  us ;  an',  in  accordance 
wi'  the  commands  delivered  in  this  Book, 
we're  here  to  fortify  two  souls  in  the'r 
choice,  an'  to  b'ar  testimony  to  the  Word 
that  makes  lawful  marriage  a  sacrament." 

With  that,  Uncle  Billy,  fumbling  in  his 
coat  pockets,  produced  a  marriage  license, 
called  Israel  Spurlock  and  his  daughter  be 
fore  him,  and  in  simple  fashion  pronounced 
the  words  that  made  them  man  and  wife. 

The  dinner  that  followed  hard  on  the  wed 
ding  was  to  the  soldiers,  who  had  been  sub 
sisting  on  the  tough  rations  furnished  by  the 


104          A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

Confederate  commissaries,  by  all  odds  the 
chief  event  of  the  day.  To  them  the  re 
sources  of  the  Powers  household  were  won 
derful  indeed.  The  shed-room,  running  the 
whole  length  of  the  house  and  kitchen,  was 
utilized,  and  the  dinner  table,  which  was 
much  too  small  to  accommodate  the  guests, 
invited  and  uninvited,  was  supplemented  by 
the  inventive  genius  of  Private  William 
Chad  wick,  who,  in  the  most  unassuming 
manner,  had  taken  control  of  the  whole  af 
fair.  He  proved  himself  to  be  an  invaluable 
aid,  and  his  good  humor  gave  a  lightness  and 
a  zest  to  the  occasion  that  would  otherwise 
have  been  sadly  lacking. 

Under  his  direction  the  tables  were  ar 
ranged  and  the  dinner  set,  and  when  the 
politely  impatient  company  were  summoned 
they  found  awaiting  them  a  meal  substantial 
enough  to  remind  them  of  the  old  days  of 
peace  and  prosperity.  -It  was  a  genuine 
Christmas  dinner.  In  the  centre  of  the 
table  there  was  a  large  bowl  of  egg-nog,  and 
this  was  flanked  and  surrounded  by  a  huge 
dish  full  of  apple  dumplings,  a  tremendous 
chicken  pie,  barbecued  shote,  barbecued  mut 
ton,  a  fat  turkey,  and  all  the  various  accom 
paniments  of  a  country  feast. 


A  CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.          105 

When  Uncle  Billy  Powers  had  said  an 
earnest  and  simple  grace  he  gave  his  place 
at  the  head  of  the  table  to  Colonel  Watson, 
who  had  been  brought  in  on  his  chair. 
Aunt  Crissy  gave  Chadwick  the  seat  of 
honor  at  the  foot,  and  then  the  two  old  peo 
ple  announced  that  they  were  ready  to  Tvait 
on  the  company,  with  Mr.  Chadwick  to  do 
the  carving.  If  the  private  betrayed  any 
embarrassment  at  all,  he  soon  recovered 
from  it. 

"  It  ain't  any  use,"  he  said,  glancing  down 
the  table,  "  to  call  the  roll.  We  're  all  here 
an'  accounted  for.  The  only  man  or  woman 
that  can't  answer  to  their  name  is  Danny 
Lemmons's  little  brown  fiddle,  an'  I  '11  bet  a 
sev'm-punce  it  'd  skreak  a  little  ef  he  tuck  it 
out  'n  the  bag.  But  before  we  whirl  in  an' 
make  a  charge  three  deep,  le'  's  begin  right. 
This  is  Christmas,  and  that  bowl  yander, 
with  the  egg-nog  in  it,  looks  tired.  Good 
as  the  dinner  is,  it 's  got  to  have  a  file  leader. 
We  '11  start  in  with  what  looks  the  nighest 
like  Christmas." 

"  Well,"  said  Aunt  Crissy,  "  I  've  been  in 
sech  a  swivet  all  day  I  don't  reelly  reckon 
the  nog  is  wuth  your  while,  but  you  '11  ha' 
ter  take  it  thes  like  you  fin'  it.  Hit 's  sweet- 


106  -4  CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

ened  wi'  long  sweet'nin',  an'  it  '11  ha'  ter  be 
dipped  up  wi'  a  gourd  an'  drunk  out  'n 
cups." 

"  Lord  bless  you,  ma'am,"  exclaimed  Chad- 
wick,  "  they  won't  be  no  questions  axed  ef 
it 's  got  Christmas  enough  in  it,  an'  I  reckon 
it  is^kaze  I  poured  it  in  myself,  an'  I  can 
hoF  up  a  jug  as  long  as  the  nex'  man." 

Though  it  was  sweetened  with  syrup,  the 
egg-nog  was  a  success,  for  its  strength  could 
not  be  denied. 

"  Ef  I  had  n't  'a'  been  a  prisoner  of  war, 
as  you  may  say,"  remarked  Chad  wick,  when 
the  guests  had  fairly  begun  to  discuss  the 
dinner,  "  I  'd  'a'  got  me  a  hunk  of  barbecue 
an'  a  dumplin'  or  two,  an'  a  slice  of  that 
chicken  pie  there  —  I  'd  'a'  grabbed  'em  up 
an'  'a'  made  off  down  the  mountain.  Why, 
I  '11  tell  you  what 's  the  truth  —  I  got  a 
whiff  of  that  barbecue  by  daylight,  an'  gen- 
tulmen,  it  fairly  made  me  dribble  at  the 
mouth.  Nex'  to  Uncle  Billy  there,  I  was 
the  fust  man  at  the  pit." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Uncle  Billy,  laughing, 
"  that 's  so.  An'  you  holp  me  a  right  smart. 
I  '11  say  that." 

"  An'  Spurlock,  he  got  a  whiff  of  it. 
Didn't  you  all  notice,  about  the  time  he 


A  CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.          107 

was  gittin'  married,  how  his  mouth  puckered 
up  ?  Along  towards  the  fust  I  thought  he 
was  fixin'  to  dip  down  an'  give  the  bride  a 
smack.  But,  bless  you,  he  had  barbecue  on 
his  min',  an'  the  bride  missed  the  buss." 

"  He  did  n't  dare  to  buss  me,"  exclaimed 
Polly,  who  was  ministering  to  her  grand 
father.  "  Leastways  not  right  out  there  be 
fore  you  all." 

"  Please,  ma'am,  don't  you  be  skeered  of 
Iserl,"  said  Chadwick.  "  I  kin  take  a  quar 
ter  of  that  shote  an'  tole  him  plumb  back  to 
camp." 

"  Now  I  don't  like  the  looks  er  this,"  ex 
claimed  Uncle  Billy  Powers,  who  had  sud 
denly  discovered  that  Lovejoy,  sitting  by 
the  side  of  Danny  Lemmons,  was  bound  so 
that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  eat  in  any 
comfort.  "  Come,  boys,  this  won't  do.  I 
don't  want  to  remember  the  time  when  any 
livin'  human  bein'  sot  at  my  table  on  Christ 
mas  day  with  his  han's  tied.  Come,  now  ! 

"  Why,  tooby  shore !  "  exclaimed  Aunt 
Crissy.  "  Turn  the  poor  creetur  loose." 

"Try  it!  "  cried  Colonel  Watson,  in  his 
shrill  voice.  "  Jest  try  it !  " 

"  Lord,  no,"  said  Danny  Lemmons. 
"  Look  at  his  eyes  !  Look  at  'em." 


108          A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

Lovejoy  sat  pale  and  unabashed,  his  eyes 
glittering  like  those  of  a  snake.  He  had  re 
fused  all  offers  of  food,  and  seemed  to  be 
giving  all  his  attention  to  Israel  Spurlock. 

"  What  does  Moseley  say  ?  "  asked  Colo 
nel  Watson. 

"  Ah,  he  is  your  prisoner,"  said  Moseley. 
"  He  never  struck  me  as  a  dangerous  man." 

"  Well,"  said  Chadwick,  "  ef  there  's  any 
doubt,  jest  take  'im  out  in  the  yard  an'  give 
'im  han'-roomance.  Don't  let  'im  turn  this 
table  over,  'cause  it  '11  be  a  long  time  before 
some  of  this  company  '11  see  the  likes  of  it 
ag'in." 

It  was  clear  that  Lovejoy  had  no  friends, 
even  among  his  comrades.  It  was  clear, 
too,  that  this  fact  gave  him  no  concern.  He 
undoubtedly  had  more  courage  than  his  po 
sition  seemed  to  demand.  He  sat  glaring  at 
Spurlock,  and  said  never  a  word.  Uncle 
Billy  Powers  looked  at  him,  and  gave  a  sigh 
that  ended  in  a  groan. 

"  Well,  boys,"  said  the  old  man,  "  this  is 
my  house,  an'  he  's  at  my  table.  I  reckon 
we  better  ontie  'im,  an'  let  'im  git  a  mou'ful 
ter  eat.  'T  ain't  nothin'  but  Christian-like." 

"  Don't  you  reckon  he  'd  better  eat  at  the 
second  table?"  inquired  Chadwick.  This 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.  109 

naive  suggestion  provoked  laughter  and  re 
stored  good  humor,  and  Colonel  Watson 
consented  that  Lovejoy  should  be  released. 
Danny  Lemmons  undertook  this  gracious 
task.  He  had  released  Lovejoy's  right  arm, 
and  was  releasing  the  left,  having  to  use  his 
teeth  on  one  of  the  knots,  when  the  prisoner 
seized  a  fork  —  a  large  horn-handle  affair, 
with  prongs  an  inch  and  a  half  long  —  and 
as  quick  as  a  flash  of  lightning  brought  it 
down  on  Danny  Lemmons' s  back.  To  those 
who  happened  to  be  looking  it  seemed  that 
the  fork  had  been  plunged  into  the  very 
vitals  of  the  hunchback. 

The  latter  went  down,  dragging  Lovejoy 
after  him.  There  was  a  short,  sharp  strug 
gle,  a  heavy  thump  or  two,  and  then,  before 
the  company  realized  what  had  happened, 
Danny  Lemmons  rose  to  his  feet  laughing, 
leaving  Lovejoy  lying  on  the  floor,  more 
securely  bound  than  ever. 

"  I  reckon  this  fork  '11  have  to  be  washed," 
said  Danny,  lifting  the  formidable-looking 
weapon  from  the  floor. 

There  was  more  excitement  after  the 
struggle  was  over  than  there  had  been  or 
could  have  been  while  it  was  going  on. 
Chadwick  insisted  on  examining  Danny 
Lemmons's  back. 


110  A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

"  I  've  saw  folks  cut  an'  slashed  an' 
stobbed  before  now,"  he  explained,  "  an' 
they  didn't  know  they  was  hurt  tell  they 
had  done  cooled  off.  They  ain't  no  holes 
here  an'  they  ain't  no  blood,  but  I  could 
'most  take  a  right  pine-blank  oath  that  I 
seed  'im  job  that  fork  in  your  back." 

"  Tut,  tut !  "  said  Colonel  Watson.  "  Do 
you  s'pose  I  raised  Danny  Lemmons  for  the 
like  of  that?" 

"  Well,"  said  Chadwick,  resuming  his  seat 
and  his  dinner  with  unruffled  nerves,  tem 
per,  and  appetite,  "  it  beats  the  known  woiT. 
It 's  the  fust  time  I  ever  seed  a  man  git 
down  on  the  floor  for  to  give  the  in-turn  an' 
the  under-cut,  an'  cut  the  pigeon-wing  an'  the 
double-shuffle,  all  before  a  cat  could  bat  her 
eye.  It  looks  to  me  that  as  peart  a  man  as 
Lemmons  there  ought  to  be  in  the  war." 

"  Ain't  he  in  the  war  ?  "  cried  Colonel 
Watson,  excitedly.  "  Ain't  he  forever  and 
eternally  in  the  war?  Ain't  he  my  bully 
bushwhacker  ?  " 

"  On  what  side  ?  "  inquired  Chadwick. 

"  The  Union,  the  Union !  "  exclaimed  the 
colonel,  his  voice  rising  into  a  scream. 

"  Well,"  said  Chadwick,  "  ef  you  think 
you  kin  take  the  taste  out'n  this  barbecue 


A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS.          Ill 

with  talk  like  that,  you  are  mighty  much 
mistaken." 

After  the  wedding  feast  was  over,  Danny 
Lemmons  seized  on  his  fiddle  and  made  mu 
sic  fine  enough  and  lively  enough  to  set  the 
nimble  feet  of  the  mountaineers  to  dancing. 
So  that,  take  it  all  in  all,  the  Christmas  of 
the  conscript  was  as  jolly  as  he  could  have 
expected  it  to  be. 

When  the  festivities  were  concluded  there 
was  a  consultation  between  Colonel  Watson 
and  Danny  Lemmons,  and  then  Captain 
Moseley  and  his  men  were  told  that  they 
were  free  to  go. 

"  What  about  Love  joy  ?  "  asked  Moseley. 

"  Oh,  bless  you  !  he  goes  over  the  moun 
tain,"  exclaimed  Danny,  with  a  grin. 
"  Lord,  yes  !  Right  over  the  mountain." 

"  Now,  I  say  no,"  said  Polly,  blushing. 
"  Turn  the  man  loose  an'  let  him  go." 

There  were  protests  from  some  of  the 
mountaineers,  but  Polly  finally  had  her  way. 
Lovejoy  was  unbound  and  permitted  to  go 
with  the  others,  who  were  escorted  a  piece 
of  the  way  down  the  mountain  by  Spurlock 
and  some  of  the  others.  When  the  moun 
taineers  started  back,  and  before  they  had 
got  out  of  sight,  Lovejoy  seized  a  musket 


112          A   CONSCRIPT'S   CHRISTMAS. 

from  one  of  his  men  and  turned  and  ran  a 
little  way  back.  What  he  would  have  done 
will  never  be  known,  for  before  he  could 
raise  his  gun  a  streak  of  fire  shot  forth  into 
his  face,  and  he  fell  and  rolled  to  the  side  of 
the  road.  An  instant  later  Danny  Lem- 
mons  leaped  from  the  bushes,  flourishing  his 
smoking  rifle. 

"  You  see  'im  now  !  "  he  cried.  "  You  see 
what  he  was  atter  !  He  'd  better  have  gone 
over  the  mountain.  Lord,  yes !  Lots  bet 
ter." 

Moseley  looked  at  Chadwick. 

"Damn  him!"  said  the  latter;  "he's 
got  what  he 's  been  a-huntin'  for." 

By  this  time  the  little  squad  of  militia 
men,  demoralized  by  the  incident,  had  fled 
down  the  mountain,  and  Moseley  and  his 
companion  hurried  after  them. 


ANANIAS. 


L 

MIDDLE  Georgia,  after  Sherman  passed 
through  on  his  famous  march  to  the  sea, 
was  full  of  the  direst  confusion  and  de 
spair,  and  there  were  many  sad  sights  to  be 
seen.  A  wide  strip  of  country  with  desolate 
plantations,  and  here  and  there  a  lonely 
chimney  standing  sentinel  over  a  pile  of 
blackened  and  smouldering  ruins,  bore  mel 
ancholy  testimony  to  the  fact  that  war  is  a 
very  serious  matter.  All  this  is  changed 
now,  of  course.  The  section  through  which 
the  grim  commander  pushed  his  way  to 
the  sea  smiles  under  the  application  of  new 
and  fresher  energies.  We  have  discovered 
that  war,  horrible  as  it  is,  sometimes  drags 
at  its  bloody  tumbril  wheel  certain  fructify 
ing  and  fertilizing  forces.  If  this  were  not 
so,  the  contest  in  which  the  South  suffered 
the  humiliation  of  defeat,  and  more,  would 


114  ANANIAS. 

have  been  a  very  desperate  affair  indeed. 
The  troubles  of  that  unhappy  time  —  its 
doubts,  its  difficulties,  and  its  swift  calami- 
ities  —  will  never  be  known  to  posterity, 
for  they  have  never  been  adequately  de 
scribed. 

It  was  during  this  awful  period  —  that  is 
to  say,  in  January,  1866— that  Lawyer 
Terrell,  of  Ma  con,  made  the  acquaintance  of 
his  friend  Ananias.  In  the  midst  of  the 
desolation  to  be  seen  on  every  hand,  this 
negro  was  the  foiiornest  spectacle  of  all. 
Lawyer  Terrell  overtook  him  on  the  public 
highway  between  Macon  and  Eockville. 
The  negro  wore  a  ragged  blue  army  over 
coat,  a  pair  of  patched  and  muddy  blue 
breeches,  and  had  on  the  remmants  of  what 
was  once  a  military  cap.  He  was  leading 
a  lame  and  broken-down  horse  through  the 
mud,  and  was  making  his  way  toward  Rock- 
ville,  at  what  appeared  to  be  a  slow  and 
painful  gait.  Curiosity  impelled  Lawyer 
Terrell  to  draw  rein  as  he  came  up  with  the 
negro. 

"Howdy,  boss?"  said  the  negro,  taking 
off  his  tattered  cap.  Responding  to  his  salu 
tation,  the  lawyer  inquired  his  name.  "  I  'm 
name'  Ananias,  suh,"  he  replied. 


ANANIAS.  115 

The  name  seemed  to  fit  him  exactly.  A 
meaner-looking  negro  Lawyer  Terrell  had 
never  seen.  There  was  not  the  shadow  of  a 
smile  on  his  face,  and  seriousness  ill  became 
him.  He  had  what  is  called  a  hang-dog 
look.  A  professional  overseer  in  the  old 
days  would  have  regarded  him  as  a  negro 
to  be  watched,  and  a  speculator  would  have 
put  him  in  chains  the  moment  he  bought 
him.  With  a  good  deal  of  experience  with 
negroes,  Lawyer  Terrell  had  never  seen  one 
whose  countenance  and  manner  were  more 
repulsive. 

"  Well,"  said  the  lawyer,  still  keeping 
along  with  him  in  the  muddy  road,  "  Ana 
nias  is  a  good  name." 

"  Yasser,"  he  replied ;  "  dat  w'at  mammy 
say.  Mammy  done  dead  now,  but  she  say 
dat  dey  wuz  two  Ananiases.  Dey  wuz  ole 
Ananias  en  young  Ananias.  One  un  um 
wuz  de  Liar,  en  de  udder  wuz  de  Poffit. 
Dat  w'at  mammy  say.  I  'm  name'  atter  de 
Poffit." 

Lawyer  Terrell  laughed,  and  continued 
his  cross-examination. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  Me  ?  I  'm  gwine  back  ter  Mars- 
ter,  suh." 


116  ANANIAS. 

"  What  is  your  master's  name  ?  " 

"  Gunnel  Benjamime  Flewellen,  suh." 

"  Colonel  Benjamin  Flewellen ;  yes  ;  I 
know  the  colonel  well.  What  are  you  going 
back  there  for?" 

"Who?  Me?  Dat  my  home,  suh.  1 
bin  brung  up  right  dar,  suh  —  right  'long- 
side  er  Marster  en  my  young  mistiss,  suh." 

"  Miss  Ellen  Flewellen,"  said  Lawyer 
Terrell,  reflectively.  At  this  remark  the 
negro  showed  a  slight  interest  in  the  conver 
sation  ;  but  his  interest  did  not  improve  his 
appearance. 

"Yasser,  dat  her  name,  sho;  but  we-all 
call  her  Miss  Nelly." 

"  A  very  pretty  name,  Ananias,"  remarked 
Lawyer  Terrell. 

"  Lord  !  yasser." 

The  negro  looked  up  at  this,  but  Lawyer 
Terrell  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  muddy 
road  ahead  of  him.  The  lawyer  was  some 
what  youngish  himself,  but  his  face  had  a 
hard,  firm  expression  common  to  those  who 
are  in  the  habit  of  having  their  own  way  in 
the  court-house  and  elsewhere. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Ananias  ?  "  said 
the  lawyer  presently. 

"  Who  ?  Me  ?  I  bin  'long  wid  Sherman 
army,  suh." 


ANANIAS.  117 

"  Then  you   are   quite  a  soldier   by  this 

time." 

"Lord!  yasser!  I  bin  wid  um  fum  de 
time  dey  come  in  dese  parts  plum  tell  dey 
got  ter  Sander'ville.  You  ain't  never  is 
bin  ter  Sander'ville,  is  you,  boss  ?  " 

"  Not  to  say  right  in  the  town,  Ananias, 
but  I  've  been  by  there  a  great  many  times." 
Lawyer  Terrell  humored  the  conversation, 
as  was  his  habit. 

"Well,  suh,"    said  Ananias,  "don't  you 
never  go  dar ;  special  don't  you  go  dar  wid 
no  army,  kase  hit 's  de  longes'  en  de  nasties^ 
road  fum  dar  ter  yer  w'en  you  er  comin' 
back,  dat  I  ever  is  lay  my  two  eyes  on." 
"  Why  did  you  come  back,  Ananias?  " 
"Who?    Me?     Well,  suh,  w'en  de  army 
come  'long  by  home  dar,  look  like  eve'ybody 
got  der  eye  sot  on  me.     Go  whar  I  would, 
look  alike  all  de  folks  wuz  a-watchin'  me. 
'Bout  time  de  army  wuz  a-pilin'  in  on  us, 
Marse  Wash  Jones,  w'ich  I  never  is  done 
'im  no  harm  dat  I  knows  un,  he  went  ter 
Marster,  he  did,  en  he  'low  dat  ef  dey  don't 
keep  mighty  close  watch  on  Ananias  dey  'd 
all   be  massycreed  in   deir   beds.     I   know 
Marse  Wash  tol'  Marster  dat,  kaze   Ma'y 
Ann,  w'ich  she  wait  on  de  table,  she  come 


118  ANANIAS. 

right  outer  de  house  en  toP  me  so.  Right 
den,  suh,  I  'gun  ter  feel  sorter  skittish. 
Marster  had  done  got  me  ter  hide  all  de 
stock  out  in  de  swamp,  en  I  'low  ter  myse'f, 
I  did,  dat  I  'd  des  go  over  dar  en  stay  wid 
um.  I  ain't  bin  dar  so  mighty  long,  suh, 
w'en  yer  come  de  Yankees,  en  wid  um  wuz 
George,  de  carriage  driver,  de  nigger  w'at 
Marster  think  mo'  uv  dan  he  do  all  de  bal 
ance  er  his  niggers.  En  now,  den,  dar  wuz 
George  a-fetchin'  de  Yankees  right  whar  he 
know  de  stock  wuz  hid  at." 

"  George  was  a  very  handy  negro  to  have 
around,"  said  Lawyer  Terrell. 

"  Yasser.  Marster  thunk  de  worl'  en  all 
er  dat  nigger,  en  dar  he  wuz  showin'  de 
Yankees  whar  de  mules  en  bosses  wuz  hid 
at.  Well,  suh,  soon  ez  he  see  me,  George 
he  put  out,  en  I  staid  dar  wid  de  bosses.  I 
try  ter  git  dem  folks  not  ter  kyar  um  off,  I 
beg  um  en  I  plead  wid  um,  but  dey  des 
laugh  at  me,  suh.  I  follered  'long  atter 
um',  en  dey  driv  dem  bosses  en  mules  right 
by  de  house.  Marster  wuz  standin'  out  in 
de  front  porch,  en  w'en  he  see  de  Yankees 
got  de  stock,  en  me  'long  wid  um,  suh,  he 
des  raise  up  his  ban's  —  so  —  en  drap  um 
down  by  his  side,  en  den  he  tuck  'n  tu'n 


ANANIAS.  119 

roun'  en  go  in  de  house.  I  run  ter  de  do', 
I  did,  but  Marster  done  fasten  it,  en  den  I 
run  roun*  de  back  way,  but  de  back  do'  wuz 
done  fassen  too.  I  know  'd  dey  did  n't  like 
me,"  Ananias  went  on,  picking  his  way 
carefully  through  the  mud,  "  en  I  wuz  mos' 
out  'n  my  head,  kaze  I  ain't  know  w'at  ter 
do.  'Tain't  wid  niggers  like  it  is  wid  white 
folks,  suh.  White  folks  know  w'at  ter  do, 
kaze  dey  in  de  habits  er  doin'  like  dey  wan- 
ter,  but  niggers,  suh  —  niggers,  dey  er  diff- 
unt.  Dey  dunner  w'at  ter  do." 

"Well,  what  did  you  do?"  asked  Law 
yer  Terrell. 

"  Who  ?  Me  ?  Well,  suh,  I  des  crope 
off  ter  my  cabin,  en  I  draw'd  up  a  cheer 
front  er  de  fier,  en  stirred  up  de  embers,  en 
sot  dar.  I  ain'  sot  dar  long  'fo'  Marster 
come  ter  de  do'.  He  open  it,  he  did,  en  he 
come  in.  He  'low,  '  You  in  dar,  Ananias  ? ' 
I  say,  '  Yasser.'  Den  he  come  in.  He 
stood  dar,  he  did,  en  look  at  me.  I  ain't 
raise  my  eyes,  suh  ;  I  des  look  in  de  embers. 
Bime-by  he  say,  '  Ain't  I  allers  treat  you 
well,  Ananias  ? '  I  'low,  '  Yasser.'  Den 
he  say,  'Ain't  I  raise  you  up  fum  a  little 
baby,  w'en  you  got  no  daddy  ? '  I  'low, '  Yas 
ser.'  He  say,  '  How  come  you  treat  me  dis 


120  ANANIAS. 

a-way,  Ananias?  Wat  make  you  show 
dem  Yankees  whar  my  bosses  en  mules 
is?'" 

Ananias  paused  as  he  picked  his  way 
through  the  mud,  leading  his  broken-down 
horse. 

"  What  did  you  tell  him  ?  "  said  Lawyer 
Terrell,  somewhat  curtly. 

"  Well,  suh,  I  dunner  w'at  de  name  er 
God  come  'cross  me.  I  wuz  dat  full  up  dat 
I  can't  talk.  I  tried  ter  tell  Marster  des 
'zactly  how  it  wuz,  but  look  like  I  wuz  all 
choke  up.  White  folks  kin  talk  right 
straight  'long,  but  niggers  is  diffunt.  Mars 
ter  stood  dar,  he  did,  en  look  at  me  right 
hard,  en  I  know  by  de  way  he  look  dat  his 
feelin's  wuz  hurted,  en  dis  make  me  wuss. 
Eve'y  time  I  try  ter  talk,  suh,  sumpin'  ne'r 
kotch  me  in  de  neck,  en  'fo'  I  kin  come  ter 
myse'f,  suh,  Marster  wuz  done  gone.  I  got 
up  en  tried  ter  holler  at  'im,  but  dat  ketch 
wuz  dar  in  my  neck,  suh,  en  mo'  special  wuz 
it  dar,  suh,  w'en  I  see  dat  he  wuz  gwine  'long 
wid  his  head  down  ;  en  dey  mighty  few  folks, 
suh,  dat  ever  is  see  my  marster  dat  a-way. 
He  kyar  his  head  high,  suh,  ef  I  do  say  it 
myse'f." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  follow  after  him  and 


ANANIAS.  121 

tell  him  about  it?"  inquired  Lawyer  Ter 
rell,  drawing  his  lap-robe  closer  about  his 
knee. 

"  Dat  des  zactly  w'at  I  oughter  done,  suh  ; 
but  right  den  en  dar  I  ain't  know  w'at  ter 
do.  I  know'd  dat  nigger  like  me  ain't  got 
no  business  foolin'  'roun'  much,  en  dat  wuz 
all  I  did  know.  I  sot  down,  I  did,  en  I 
make  up  my  min'  dat  ef  Marster  got  de 
idee  dat  I  had  his  stock  run'd  off,  I  better 
git  out  fum  dar ;  en  den  I  went  ter  work, 
suh,  en  I  pack  up  w'at  little  duds  I  got,  en 
I  put  out  wid  de  army.  I  march  wid  um, 
suh,  plum  tell  dey  got  ter  Sander'ville,  en 
dar  I  ax  um  w'at  dey  gwine  pay  me  fer 
gwine  wid  um.  Well,  suh,  you  may  n't 
b'lieve  me,  but  dem  w'ite  mens  dey  des 
laugh  at  me.  All  dis  time  I  bin  runnin' 
over  in  my  min'  'bout  Marster  en  Miss 
Nelly,  en-w'en  I  fin'  out  dat  dey  wa'n't  no 
pay  fer  niggers  gwine  wid  de  army  I  des 
up  en  say  ter  myse'f  dat  dat  bind  er  busi 
ness  ain't  gwine  do  fer  me." 

"If  they  had  paid  you  anything,"  said 
Lawyer  Terrell,  "  I  suppose  you  would  have 
gone  011  with  the  army  ?  " 

"Who?  Me?  Dat  I  wouldn't,"  replied 
Ananias,  emphatically  —  "  dat  I  would  n't. 


122  ANANIAS. 

I  'd  'a  got  my  money,  en  I  'd  'a  come  back 
home,  kaze  I  boun'  you  I  wa'n't  a-gwine  ter 
let  Marster  drap  off  and  die  widout  knowin' 
who  run'd  dem  stock  off.  No,  suh.  I  wuz 
des  'bleege  ter  come  back." 

"  Ananias,"  said  Lawyer  Terrell,  "  you 
are  a  good  man." 

"  Thanky,  suh !  —  thanky,  marster !  "  ex 
claimed  Ananias,  taking  off  his  weather- 
beaten  cap.  "  You  er  de  f us  w'ite  man  dat 
ever  toF  me  dat  sence  I  bin  born'd  inter  de 
worl'.  Thanky,  suh !  " 

"  Good-by,"  said  Lawyer  Terrell,  touch 
ing  his  horse  lightly  with  the  whip. 

"  Good-by,  marster !  "  said  Ananias,  with 
unction.  "Good-by,  marster !  en  thanky !" 

Lawyer  Terrell  passed  out  of  sight  in  the 
direction  of  Kockville.  Ananias  went  in  the 
same  direction,  but  he  made  his  way  over  the 
road  with  a  lighter  heart. 

II. 

It  is  to  be  presumed  that  Ananias's  ex 
planation  was  satisfactory  to  Colonel  Ben 
jamin  Flewellen,  for  he  settled  down  on  his 
former  master's  place,  and  proceeded  to  make 
his  presence  felt  on  the  farm  as  it  never  had 


ANANIAS.  123 

been  felt  before.  Himself  and  his  army- 
worn  horse  were  decided  accessions,  for  the 
horse  turned  out  to  be  an  excellent  animal. 
Ananias  made  no  contract  with  his  former 
master,  and  asked  for  no  wages.  He  sim 
ply  took  possession  of  his  old  quarters,  and 
began  anew  the  life  he  had  led  in  slavery 
times  —  with  this  difference  :  in  the  old  days 
he  had  been  compelled  to  work,  but  now  he 
was  working  of  his  own  free-will  and  to 
please  himself.  The  result  was  that  he 
worked  much  harder. 

It  may  be  said  that  though  Colonel  Ben 
jamin  Flewellen  was  a  noted  planter,  he  was 
not  much  of  a  farmer.  Before  and  during 
the  war  he  had  intrusted  his  plantation  and 
his  planting  in  the  care  of  an  overseer.  For 
three  hundred  dollars  a  year  — which  was 
not  much  of  a  sum  in  slavery  times — he 
could  be  relieved  of  all  the  cares  and  anxi 
eties  incident  to  the  management  of  a  large 
plantation.  His  father  before  him  had  con 
ducted  the  plantation  by  proxy,  and  Colonel 
Flewellen  was  not  slow  to  avail  himself  of  a 
long-established  custom  that  had  been  justi 
fied  by  experience.  Moreover,  Colonel  Flew 
ellen  had  a  taste  for  literature.  His  father 
had  gathered  together  a  large  collection  of 


124  ANANIAS. 

books,  and  Colonel  Flewellen  had  added  to 
this  until  he  was  owner  of  one  of  the  largest 
private  libraries  in  a  State  where  large  pri 
vate  libraries  were  by  no  means  rare.  He 
wrote  verse  on  occasion,  and  essays  in  de 
fense  of  slavery.  There  are  yet  living  men 
who  believed  that  his  "  Reply  "  to  Charles 
Sumner's  attack  on  the  South  was  so  crush 
ing  in  its  argument  and  its  invective  —  par 
ticularly  its  invective  —  that  it  would  go  far 
toward  putting  an  end  to  the  abolition  move 
ment.  Colonel  Flewelleu's  "Reply"  filled 
a  page  of  the  New  York  "  Day-Book,"  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  he  made  the  most  of 
the  limited  space  placed  at  his  disposal. 

With  his  taste  and  training  it  is  not  sur 
prising  that  Colonel  Benjamin  Flewellen 
should  leave  his  plantation  interests  to  the 
care  of  Mr.  Washington  Jones,  his  overseer, 
and  devote  himself  to  the  liberal  arts.  He 
not  only  wrote  and  published  the  deservedly 
famous  "  Reply  "  to  Charles  Sumner,  which 
was  afterward  reprinted  in  pamphlet  form  for 
the  benefit  of  his  friends  and  admirers,  but 
he  collected  his  fugitive  verses  in  a  volume, 
which  was  published  by  an  enterprising  New 
York  firm  "for  the  author;"  and  in  addi 
tion  to  this  he  became  the  proprietor  and 


ANANIAS.  125 

editor  of  the  Rockville  "  Vade-Mecum,"  a 
weekly  paper  devoted  to  "  literature,  science, 
politics,  and  the  news." 

When,  therefore,  the  collapse  came,  the 
colonel  found  himself  practically  stranded. 
He  was  not  only  land-poor,  but  he  had  no 
experience  in  the  management  of  his  planta 
tion.  Ananias,  when  he  returned  from  his 
jaunt  with  the  army,  was  of  some  help,  but 
not  much.  He  knew  how  the  plantation 
ought  to  be  managed,  but  he  stood  in  awe 
of  the  colonel,  and  he  was  somewhat  back 
ward  in  giving  his  advice.  In  fact,  he  had 
nothing  to  say  unless  his  opinion  was  asked, 
and  this  was  not  often,  for  Colonel  Flewellen 
had  come  to  entertain  the  general  opinion 
about  Ananias,  which  was,  in  effect,  that  he 
was  a  sneaking,  hypocritical  rascal  who  was 
not  to  be  depended  on ;  a  good-enough 
worker,  to  be  sure,  but  not  a  negro  in  whom 
one  could  repose  confidence. 

The  truth  is,  Ananias's  appearance  was 
against  him.  He  was  ugly  and  mean-look 
ing,  and  he  had  a  habit  of  slipping  around 
and  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  white  people 
—  a  habit  which,  in  that  day  and  time,  gave 
everybody  reason  enough  to  distrust  him. 
As  a  result  of  this,  Ananias  got  the  credit 


126  ANANIAS. 

of  every  mean  act  that  could  not  be  traced 
to  any  responsible  source.  If  a  smoke 
house  was  broken  open  in  the  night,  Ananias 
was  the  thief.  The  finger  of  suspicion  was 
pointed  at  him  on  every  possible  occasion. 
He  was  thought  to  be  the  head  and  front  of 
the  Union  League,  a  political  organization 
set  in  motion  by  the  shifty  carpet-baggers  for 
the  purpose  of  consolidating  the  negro  vote 
against  the  whites.  In  this  way  prejudice 
deepened  against  him  all  the  while,  until  he 
finally  became  something  of  an  Ishmaelite, 
holding  no  intercourse  with  any  white  peo 
ple  but  Colonel  Flewellen  and  Miss  Nelly. 

Meanwhile,  as  may  be  supposed,  Colonel 
Flewellen  was  not  making  much  of  a  suc 
cess  in  managing  his  plantation.  Begin 
ning  without  money,  he  had  as  much  as 
he  could  do  to  make  "buckle  and  tongue 
meet,"  as  the  phrase  goes.  In  fact  he  did 
not  make  them  meet.  He  farmed  on  the 
old  lavish  plan.  He  borrowed  money,  and 
he  bought  provisions,  mules,  and  fertilizers 
on  credit,  paying  as  much  as  two  hundred 
per  cent  interest  on  his  debts. 

Strange  to  say,  his  chief  creditor  was  Mr. 
Washington  Jones,  his  former  overseer. 
Somehow  or  other  Mr.  Jones  had  thrived. 


ANANIAS.  127 

He  had  saved  money  as  an  overseer,  being  a 
man  of  simple  tastes  and  habits,  and  when 
the  crash  came  he  was  comparatively  a  rich 
man.  When  affairs  settled  down  somewhat, 
Mr.  Jones  blossomed  out  as  a  commission 
merchant,  and  he  soon  established  a  large 
and  profitable  business.  He  sold  provisions 
and  commercial  fertilizers,  he  bought  cotton, 
and  he  was  not  above  any  transaction,  how 
ever  small,  that  promised  to  bring  him  a 
dime  where  he  had  invested  a  thrip.  He 
was  a  very  thrifty  man  indeed.  In  addition 
to  his  other  business  he  shaved  notes  and 
bought  mortgages,  and  in  this  way  the  fact 
came  to  be  recognized,  as  early  as  1868,  that 
he  was  what  is  known  as  "  a  leading  citizen." 
He  did  not  hesitate  to  grind  a  man  when  he 
had  him  in  his  clutches,  and  on  this  account 
he  made  enemies ;  but  as  his  worldly  posses 
sions  grew  and  assumed  tangible  propor 
tions,  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  he  had 
more  friends  than  enemies. 

For  a  while  Mr.  Washington  Jones's  most 
prominent  patron  was  Colonel  Benjamin 
Flewellen.  The  colonel,  it  should  be  said, 
was  not  only  a  patron  of  Jones,  but  he  pa 
tronized  him.  He  made  his  purchases, 
chiefly  on  credit,  in  a  lordly,  superior  way, 


128  ANANIAS. 

as  became  a  gentleman  whose  hireling  Jones 
had  been.  When  the  colonel  had  money  he 
was  glad  to  pay  cash  for  his  supplies,  but 
it  happened  somehow  that  he  rarely  had 
money.  Jones,  it  must  be  confessed,  was 
very  accommodating.  He  was  anxious  to 
sell  to  the  colonel  on  the  easiest  terms,  so 
far  as  payment  was  concerned,  and  he  often, 
in  a  sly  way,  flattered  the  colonel  into  mak 
ing  larger  bills  than  he  otherwise  would 
have  made. 

There  could  be  but  one  result,  and  though 
that  result  was  inevitable,  everybody  about 
Rockville  seemed  to  be  surprised.  The  colo 
nel  had  disposed  of  his  newspaper  long  be 
fore,  and  one  day  there  appeared,  in  the  col 
umns  which  he  had  once  edited  with  such 
care,  a  legal  notice  to  the  effect  that  he  had 
applied  to  the  ordinary  of  the  county,  in 
proper  form,  to  set  aside  a  homestead  and 
personalty.  This  meant  that  the  colonel, 
with  his  old-fashioned  ways  and  methods, 
had  succumbed  to  the  inevitable.  He  had  a 
house  and  lot  in  town,  and  this  was  set  apart 
as  his  homestead  by  the  judge  of  ordinary. 
Mr.  Washington  Jones,  you  may  be  sure, 
lost  no  time  in  foreclosing  his  mortgages, 
and  the  fact  soon  came  to  be  known  that  he 


ANANIAS.  129 

was  now  the  proprietor  of  the  Flewellen 
place. 

Just  at  this  point  the  colonel  first  began 
to  face  the  real  problems  of  life,  and  he 
found  them  to  be  very  knotty  ones.  He 
must  live  —  but  how?  He  knew  no  law, 
and  was  acquainted  with  no  business.  He 
was  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar ;  but  these 
accomplishments  would  not  serve  him ;  in 
deed,  they  stood  in  his  way.  He  had  been 
brought  up  to  no  business,  and  it  was  a  little 
late  in  life  —  the  colonel  was  fifty  or  more 
—  to  begin  to  learn.  He  might  have  en 
tered  upon  a  political  career,  and  this  would 
have  been  greatly  to  his  taste,  but  all  the 
local  offices  were  filled  by  competent  men, 
and  just  at  that  time  a  Southerner  to  the 
manner  born  had  little  chance  to  gain  ad 
mission  to  Congress.  The  Republican  "  re- 
constructionists,"  headed  by  Thaddeus  Ste 
vens,  barred  the  way.  The  outlook  was 
gloomy  indeed. 

Nelly  Flewellen,  who  had  grown  to  be  a 
beautiful  woman,  and  who  was  as  accom 
plished  as  she  was  beautiful,  gave  music 
lessons  ;  but  in  Rockville  at  that  time  there 
was  not  much  to  be  made  by  teaching  music. 
It  is  due  to  the  colonel  to  say  that  he  was 


130  ANANIAS. 

bitterly  opposed  to  this  project,  and  he  was 
glad  when  his  daughter  gave  it  up  in  de 
spair.  Then  she  took  in  sewing  surrepti 
tiously,  and  did  other  things  that  a  girl  of 
tact  and  common  sense  would  be  likely  to 
do  when  put  to  the  test. 

The  colonel  and  his  daughter  managed  to 
get  along  somehow,  but  it  was  a  miserable 
existence  compared  to  their  former  estate  of 
luxury.  Just  how  they  managed,  only  one 
person  in  the  wide  world  knew,  and  that  per 
son  was  Ananias.  Everybody  around  Rock- 
ville  said  it  was  very  queer  how  the  colonel, 
with  no  money  and  little  credit,  could  afford 
to  keep  a  servant,  and  a  man-servant  at 
that.  But  there  was  nothing  queer  about  it. 
Ananias  received  no  wages  of  any  sort ;  he 
asked  for  none  ;  he  expected  none.  A  child 
of  misfortune  himself,  he  was  glad  to  share 
the  misfortunes  of  his  former  master.  He 
washed,  he  ironed,  he  cooked,  he  milked, 
and  he  did  more.  He  found  time  to  do 
little  odd  jobs  around  town,  and  with  the 
money  thus  earned  he  was  able  to  supply 
things  that  would  otherwise  have  been  miss 
ing  from  Colonel  Flewellen's  table.  He 
was  as  ugly  and  as  mean-looking  as  ever, 
and  as  unpopular.  Even  the  colonel  dis- 


ANANIAS.  131 

trusted  him,  but  he  managed  to  tolerate 
him.  The  daughter  often  had  words  of 
praise  for  the  shabby  and  forlorn-looking 
negro,  and  these,  if  anything,  served  to 
lighten  his  tasks. 

But  in  spite  of  everything  that  his  daugh 
ter  or  Ananias  could  do,  the  colonel  con 
tinued  to  grow  poorer.  To  all  appearances 
—  and  he  managed  to  keep  up  appearances 
to  the  last  —  he  was  richer  than  many  of 
his  neighbors,  for  he  had  a  comfortable 
house,  and  he  still  had  credit  in  the  town. 
Among  the  shopkeepers  there  were  few  that 
did  not  respect  and  admire  the  colonel  for 
what  he  had  been.  But  the  colonel,  since 
his  experience  with  Mr.  Washington  Jones, 
looked  with  suspicion  on  the  credit  business. 
The  result  was  that  he  and  his  daughter  and 
Ananias  lived  in  the  midst  of  the  ghastliest 
poverty. 

As  for  Ananias,  he  could  stand  it  well 
enough  ;  so,  perhaps,  could  the  colonel,  he 
being  a  man,  and  a  pretty  stout  one  ;  but 
how  about  the  young  lady?  This  was  the 
question  that  Ananias  was  continually  ask 
ing  himself,  and  circumstances  finally  drove 
him  to  answering  it  in  his  own  way.  There 
was  this  much  to  be  said  about  Ananias ; 


132  ANANIAS. 

when  he  made  up  his  mind,  nothing  could 
turn  him,  humble  as  he  was ;  and  then  came 
a  period  in  the  career  of  the  family  to  which 
he  had  attached  himself  when  he  was  com 
pelled  to  make  up  his  mind  or  see  them 
starve. 


III. 

At  this  late  day  there  is  no  particular 
reason  for  concealing  the  facts.  Ananias 
took  the  responsibility  on  his  shoulders,  and 
thereafter  the  colonel's  larder  was  always 
comparatively  full.  At  night  Ananias  would 
sit  and  nod  before  a  fire  in  the  kitchen,  and 
after  everybody  else  had  gone  to  bed  he 
would  sneak  out  into  the  darkness,  and  be 
gone  for  many  hours  ;  but  whether  the  hours 
of  his  absence  were  many  or  few,  he  never 
returned  empty  -  handed.  Sometimes  he 
would  bring  a  "  turn  "  of  wood,  sometimes 
a  bag  of  meal  or  potatoes,  sometimes  a  side 
of  meat  or  a  ham,  and  sometimes  he  would 
be  compelled  to  stop,  while  yet  some  dis 
tance  from  the  house,  to  choke  a  chicken 
that  betrayed  a  tendency  to  squall  in  the 
small  still  hours  between  midnight  and 
morning.  The  colonel  and  his  daughter 


ANANIAS.  133 

never  knew  whence  their  supplies  came. 
They  only  knew  that  Ananias  suddenly  de 
veloped  into  a  wonderfully  good  cook,  for  it 
is  a  very  good  cook  indeed  that  can  go  on 
month  after  month  providing  excellent  meals 
without  calling  for  new  supplies. 

But  Ananias  had  always  been  peculiar, 
and  if  he  grew  a  trifle  more  uncommunicative 
than  usual,  neither  the  colonel  nor  the  colo 
nel's  daughter  was  expected  to  take  notice  of 
the  fact.  Ananias  was  a  sullen  negro  at  best, 
but  his  sullenness  was  not  at  all  important, 
and  nobody  cared  whether  his  demeanor  was 
grave  or  gay,  lively  or  severe.  Indeed,  ex 
cept  that  he  was  an  object  of  distrust  and 
suspicion,  nobody  cared  anything  at  all  about 
Ananias.  For  his  part,  Ananias  seemed  to 
care  nothing  for  people's  opinions,  good, 
bad,  or  indifferent.  If  the  citizens  of  Rock- 
ville  thought  ill  of  him,  that  was  their  affair 
altogether.  Ananias  went  sneaking  around, 
attending  to  what  he  conceived  to  be  his 
own  business,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that,  in 
some  way,  he  managed  to  keep  Colonel  Flew- 
ellen's  larder  well  supplied  with  provisions. 

About  this  time  Mr.  Washington  Jones, 
who  had  hired  a  clerk  for  his  store,  and  who 
was  mainly  devoting  his  time  to  managing, 


134  ANANIAS. 

as  proprietor,  the  Flewellen  place,  which  he 
had  formerly  managed  as  overseer,  began  to 
discover  that  he  was  the  victim  of  a  series 
of  mysterious  robberies  and  burglaries.  No 
body  suffered  but  Mr.  Jones,  and  everybody 
said  that  it  was  not  only  very  unjust,  but 
very  provoking  also,  that  this  enterprising 
citizen  should  be  systematically  robbed, 
while  all  his  neighbors  should  escape.  These 
mysterious  robberies  soon  became  the  talk 
of  the  whole  county.  Some  people  sympa 
thized  with  Jones,  while  others  laughed  at 
him.  Certainly  the  mystery  was  a  very 
funny  mystery,  for  when  Jones  watched  his 
potato  hill,  his  smoke-house  was  sure  to  be 
entered.  If  he  watched  his  smoke-house, 
his  potato  hill  would  suffer.  If  he  divided 
his  time  watching  both  of  these,  his  store 
house  would  be  robbed.  There  was  no  reg 
ularity  about  this  ;  but  it  was  generally  con 
ceded  that  the  more  Jones  watched,  the 
more  he  was  robbed,  and  it  finally  came  to 
be  believed  in  the  county  that  Jones,  to  ex 
press  it  in  the  vernacular,  "hollered  too 
loud  to  be  hurt  much." 

At  last  one  day  it  was  announced  that 
Jones  had  discovered  the  thief  who  had  been 
robbing  him.  He  had  not  caught  him,  but 


ANANIAS.  135 

he  had  seen  him  plainly  enough  to  identify 
him.  The  next  thing  that  Rockville  knew, 
a  warrant  had  been  issued  for  Ananias,  and 
he  was  arrested.  He  had  no  commitment 
trial.  He  was  lodged  in  the  jail  to  await 
trial  in  the  Superior  Court.  Colonel  Flew- 
ellen  was  sorry  for  the  negro,  as  well  he 
might  be,  but  he  was  afraid  to  go  on  his 
bond.  Faithful  as  Ananias  had  been,  he 
was  a  negro,  after  all,  the  colonel  argued, 
and  if  he  was  released  on  bond  he  would  not 
hesitate  to  run  away,  if  such  an  idea  should 
occur  to  him. 

Fortunately  for  Ananias,  he  was  not  per 
mitted  to  languish  in  jail.  The  Superior 
Court  met  the  week  after  he  was  arrested, 
and  his  case  was  among  the  first  called.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  case,  indeed,  that  needed 
very  little  trying.  But  a  very  curious  inci 
dent  happened  in  the  court-room. 

Among  the  lawyers  present  was  Mr.  Ter 
rell,  of  Macon.  Mr.  Terrell  was  by  all 
odds  the  greatest  lawyer  practising  in  that 
circuit.  He  was  so  great,  indeed,  that  he 
was  not  called  "  major,"  or  "  colonel,"  or 
"judge."  He  ranked  with  Stephens  and 
Hill,  and  like  these  distinguished  men  his 
title  was  plain  "Mr."  Mr.  Terrell  practised 


136  ANANIAS. 

in  all  the  judicial  circuits  of  the  State,  and 
had  important  cases  in  all  of  them.  He 
was  in  Rockville  for  the  purpose  of  arguing 
a  case  to  be  tried  at  term,  and  which  he 
knew  would  be  carried  to  the  Supreme 
Court  of  the  State,  no  matter  what  the  ver 
dict  of  the  lower  court  might  be.  He  was 
arranging  and  verifying  his  authorities  anew, 
and  he  was  very  busy  when  the  sheriff  came 
into  the  court-house  bringing  Ananias.  The 
judge  on  the  bench  thought  he  had  never 
seen  a  more  rascally-looking  prisoner ;  but 
even  rascally-looking  prisoners  have  their 
rights,  and  so,  when  Ananias's  case  was 
called,  the  judge  asked  him  in  a  friendly 
way  if  he  had  counsel  —  if  he  had  engaged 
a  lawyer  to  defend  him. 

Ananias  did  not  understand  at  first,  but 
when  the  matter  was  made  plain  to  him  he 
said  he  could  get  a  lawyer.  Whereupon  he 
walked  over  to  where  Mr.  Terrell  sat  im 
mersed  in  his  big  books,  and  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder.  The  lawyer  looked  up. 

"  I  'm  name'  Ananias,  suh,"  said  the  ne 
gro. 

"  I  remember  you,"  said  Mr.  Terrell. 
"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

got  me  up  fer  my  trial,  suh,  en  I 


ANANIAS.  137 

'ain't  got  nobody  fer  ter  speak  de  word  fer 
me,  suh,  en  I  'low'd  maybe  —  " 

Ananias  paused.  He  knew  not  what  else 
to  say.  He  had  no  sort  of  claim  on  this 
man.  He  saw  everybody  around  him  laugh 
ing.  The  great  lawyer  himself  smiled  as  he 
twirled  his  eye-glasses  on  his  fingers.  Ana 
nias  was  embarrassed. 

"  You  want  me  to  speak  the  word  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Terrell. 

"  Yes,  suh,  if  you  please,  suh." 

"  You  need  not  trouble  yourself,  Mr.  Ter 
rell,"  said  the  judge,  affably.  "  I  was  about 
to  appoint  counsel." 

"May  it  please  your  honor,"  said  Mr. 
Terrell,  rising.  "  I  will  defend  this  boy. 
I  know  nothing  whatever  of  the  case,  but  I 
happen  to  know  something  of  the  negro." 

There  was  quite  a  little  stir  in  the  court 
room  at  this  announcement.  The  loafers 
outside  the  railings  of  the  bar,  who  had 
seen  Ananias  every  day  for  a  good  many 
years,  leaned  forward  to  take  another  look 
at  him.  The  lawyers  inside  the  bar  also 
seemed  to  be  interested  in  the  matter.  Some 
thought  that  the  great  lawyer  had  taken  the 
negro's  case  by  way  of  a  joke,  and  they 
promised  themselves  a  good  deal  of  enjoy- 


138  ANANIAS. 

ment,  for  it  is  not  every  day  that  a  prom 
inent  man  is  seen  at  play.  Others  knew  not 
what  to  think  ;  so  that  between  those  who  re 
garded  it  as  a  practical  joke  and  those  who 
thought  that  Mr.  Terrell  might  be  in  a  seri 
ous  mood,  the  affair  caused  quite  a  sensa 
tion. 

"  May  it  please  the  court,"  said  Mr.  Ter 
rell,  his  firm  voice  penetrating  to  every 
part  of  the  large  room,  "  I  know  nothing  of 
this. case  ;  therefore  I  will  ask  half  an  hour's 
delay  to  look  over  the  papers  and  to  consult 
with  my  client." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  judge,  pleasantly. 
"  Mr.  Sheriff,  take  the  prisoner  to  the  Grand 
Jury  room,  so  that  he  may  consult  with  his 
counsel." 

The  sheriff  locked  the  prisoner  and  the 
lawyer  in  the  Grand  Jury  room,  and  left  his 
deputy  there  to  open  the  door  when  Mr. 
Terrell  announced  that  the  conference  was 
over.  In  the  mean  time  the  court  proceeded 
with  other  business.  Cases  were  settled, 
dismissed,  or  postponed.  A  couple  of  young 
lawyers  fell  into  a  tumultuous  wrangle  over 
an  immaterial  point,  which  the  judge  dis 
posed  of  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

In  the  Grand  Jury  room  Ananias  was 
telling  his  volunteer  counsel  a  strange  tale. 


ANANIAS.  139 


IV. 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
really  stole  these  things  from  Jones  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Terrell,  after  he  had  talked  a  little  with 
his  client. 

"  Well,  suh,"  replied  Ananias,  unabashed, 
"  I  did  n't  zackly  steal  urn,  suh,  but  I  tuck 
um ;  I  des  tuck  urn,  suh." 

"  What  call  had  you  to  steal  from  Jones  ? 
Weren't  you  working  for  Colonel  Flewel- 
len  ?  Did  n't  he  feed  you  ?  "  inquired  the 
lawyer.  Ananias  shifted  about  from  one 
foot  to  the  other,  and  whipped  his  legs  with 
his  shabby  hat,  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 
Lawyer  Terrell,  seated  in  a  comfortable 
chair,  and  thoroughly  at  his  ease,  regarded 
the  negro  curiously.  There  appeared  to  be 
a  pathetic  element  even  in  Ananias's  man 
ner. 

"  Well,  suh,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  see 
ing  that  he  could  not  escape  from  the  con 
fession,  "  ef  I  had  n't  a-tuck  dem  things  f  uni 
Marse  Wash  Jones,  my  Marster  en  my 
young  mistiss  would  'a  sot  dar  en  boda- 
ciously  starve  deyse'f  ter  deff.  I  done  seed 
dat,  suh.  Dey  wuz  too  proud  ter  tell  folks 


140  ANANIAS. 

dey  wuz  dat  bad  off,  suh,  en  dey  'd  'a  sot  dar, 
en  des  bodaciously  starve  deyse'f  ter  deff, 
suh.  All  dey  lifetime,  suh,  dey  bin  use  ter 
havin'  deir  vittles  put  right  on  de  table  whar 
dey  kin  git  it,  en  w'en  de  farmin'  days  done 
gone,  suh,  dey  wa'n't  nobody  but  Ananias 
fer  put  de  vittles  dar  ;  en  I  des  hatter  scuffle 
'roun'  en  git  it  de  bes'  way  I  kin.  I  'spec', 
suh,"  Ananias  went  on,  his  countenance 
brightening  up  a  little,  "  dat  ef  de  wuss  had 
a-come  ter  de  wuss,  I  'd  'a'  stole  de  vittles ; 
but  I  'ain't  had  ter  steal  it,  suh  ;  I  des  went 
en  tuck  it  fum  Marse  Wash  Jones,  kaze  it 
come  off'n  Marster's  Ian',  suh." 

"  Why,  the  land  belongs  to  Jones,"  said 
Lawyer  Terrell. 

"  Dat  w'at  dey  say,  suh :  but  eve'y  foot 
er  dat  Ian'  b'longded  ter  de  Flewellen  fam- 
bly  long  'fo'  Marse  Wash  Jones'  daddy  sot 
up  a  hat-shop  in  de  neighborhoods.  I  dun- 
ner  how  Marse  Wash  git  dat  Ian',  suh ;  I 
know  it  b'longded  in  de  Flewellen  fambly 
sence  'way  back,  en  dey  got  deir  graveyard 
dar  yit." 

Lawyer  Terrell's  unusually  stern  face 
softened  a  little.  He  saw  that  Ananias  was 
in  earnest,  and  his  sympathies  were  aroused. 
He  had  some  further  conversation  with  the 


ANANIAS.  141 

negro,  questioning  him  in  regard  to  a  great 
many  things  that  assumed  importance  in  the 
trial. 

When  Lawyer  Terrell  and  his  client  re 
turned  to  the  court-room  they  found  it  filled 
with  spectators.  Somehow,  it  became  gen 
erally  known  that  the  great  advocate  was  to 
defend  Ananias,  and  a  large  crowd  of  peo 
ple  had  assembled  to  watch  developments. 
In  some  way  the  progress  of  Ananias  and 
the  deputy-sheriff  through  the  crowd  that 
filled  all  the  aisles  and  doorways  had  been 
delayed;  but  when  the  negro,  forlorn  and 
wretched-looking,  made  his  appearance  in 
the  bar  for  the  purpose  of  taking  a  seat  by 
his  counsel,  there  was  a  general  laugh.  In 
stantly  Lawyer  Terrell  was  upon  his  feet. 

"  May  it  please  your  honor,  what  is  the 
duty  of  the  sheriff  of  this  county,  if  it  is  not 
to  keep  order  in  this  court-room  ?  " 

The  ponderous  staff  of  the  sheriff  came 
down  on  the  floor  with  a  thump ;  but  it  was 
unnecessary.  Silence  had  fallen  on  the 
spectators  with  the  first  words  of  the  lawyer. 
The  crowd  knew  that  he  was  a  game  man, 
and  they  admired  him  for  it.  His  whole 
attitude,  as  he  gazed  at  the  people  around 
him,  showed  that  he  was  full  of  fight.  His 


142  ANANIAS. 

heavy  blond  hair,  swept  back  from  his  high 
forehead,  looked  like  the  mane  of  a  lion, 
and  his  steel-gray  eyes  glittered  under  his 
shaggy  and  frowning  brows. 

The  case  of  the  State  versus  Ananias 
Flewellen,  alias  Ananias  Harper  —  a  name 
he  had  taken  since  freedom  —  was  called  in 
due  form.  It  was  observed  that  Lawyer 
Terrell  was  very  particular  to  strike  certain 
names  from  the  jury  list,  but  this  gave  no 
cue  to  the  line  of  his  defense.  The  first 
witness  was  Mr.  Washington  Jones,  who  de 
tailed,  as  well  as  he  knew  how,  the  circum 
stances  of  the  various  robberies  of  which 
he  had  been  the  victim.  He  had  suspected 
Ananias,  but  had  not  made  his  suspicions 
known  until  he  was  sure,  —  until  he  had 
caught  him  stealing  sweet-potatoes. 

The  cross-examination  of  the  witness  by 
Ananias's  counsel  was  severe.  The  fact 
was  gradually  developed  that  Mr.  Jones 
caught  the  negro  stealing  potatoes  at  night ; 
that  the  night  was  dark  and  cloudy ;  that 
he  did  not  actually  catch  the  negro,  but  saw 
him ;  that  he  did  not  really  see  the  negro 
clearly,  but  knew  "  in  reason  "  that  it  must 
be  Ananias. 

The   fact  was   also   developed   that   Mr. 


ANANIAS.  143 

Jones  was  not  alone  when  he  saw  Ananias, 
but  was  accompanied  by  Mr.  Miles  Cotting- 
ham,  a  small  farmer  in  the  neighborhood, 
who  was  well  known  all  over  the  county  as 
a  man  of  undoubted  veracity  and  of  the 
strictest  integrity. 

At  this  point  Lawyer  Terrell,  who  had 
been  facing  Mr.  Jones  with  severity  painted 
on  his  countenance,  seemed  suddenly  to  re 
cover  his  temper.  He  turned  to  the  listen 
ing  crowd,  and  said,  in  his  blandest  tones, 
"  Is  Mr.  Miles  Cottiiigham  in  the  room  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  a  small  boy 
perched  in  one  of  the  windows,  through 
which  the  sun  was  streaming,  cried  out, 
"  He's  a-standin'  out  yander  by  the  horse- 
rack." 

Whereupon  a  subpoena  was  promptly 
made  out  by  the  clerk  of  the  court,  and  the 
deputy  sheriff,  putting  his  head  out  of  a 
window,  cried : 

"Miles  G.  Cottingham!  Miles  G.  Cot- 
tingham !  Miles  G.  Cottingham  !  Come  into 
court." 

Mr.  Cottingham  was  fat,  rosy,  and  cheer 
ful.  He  came  into  court  with  such  a  du 
bious  smile  on  his  face  that  his  friends  in 
the  room  were  disposed  to  laugh,  but  they 


144  ANANIAS. 

remembered  that  Lawyer  Terrell  was  some 
what  intolerant  of  these  manifestations  of 
good-humor.  As  for  Mr.  Cottingham  him 
self,  he  was  greatly  puzzled.  When  the 
voice  of  the  court  crier  reached  his  ears  he 
was  in  the  act  of  taking  a  dram,  and,  as  he 
said  afterward,  he  "  come  mighty  nigh  drap- 
pin'  the  tumbeler."  But  he  was  not  sub 
jected  to  any  such  mortification.  He  tossed 
off  his  dram  in  fine  style,  and  went  to  the 
court-house,  where,  as  soon  as  he  had  pushed 
his  way  to  the  front,  he  was  met  by  Lawyer 
Terrell,  who  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand, 
and  told  him  his  testimony  was  needed  in 
order  that  justice  might  be  done. 

Then  Mr.  Cottingham  was  put  on  the 
stand  as  a  witness  for  the  defense. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Mr.  Cottingham  ? " 
said  Lawyer  Terrell. 

"  Ef  I  make  no  mistakes,  I  'm  a-gwine  on 
sixty-nine,"  replied  the  witness. 

"  Are  your  eyes  good  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  they  er  about  ez  good  ez  the 
common  run  ;  not  so  good  ez  they  mought 
be,  en  yit  good  enough  fer  me." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  that  negro  before  ?  " 
The  lawyer  pointed  to  Ananias. 

"  Which  nigger  ?     That  un  over  there  ? 


ANANIAS.  145 

Why,  that 's  thish  yer  God-forsakin'  Ana 
nias.  Ef  it  had  a-bin  any  yuther  nigger  but 
Ananias  I  would  n't  'a'  bin  so  certain  and 
shore ;  bekaze  sence  the  war  they  er  all  so 
mighty  nigh  alike  I  can't  tell  one  from 
t'other  sca'cely.  All  eckceppin'  of  Ananias; 
I  'd  know  Ananias  ef  I  met  'im  in  kingdom 
come  wi'  his  hair  all  swinjed  off." 

The  jury  betrayed  symptoms  of  enjoying 
this  testimony  ;  seeing  which,  the  State's  at 
torney  rose  to  his  feet  to  protest. 

"  May  it  please  the  court  "  — 

"  One  moment,  your  honor !  "  exclaimed 
Lawyer  Terrell.  Then,  turning  to  the  wit 
ness  :  "  Mr.  Cottingham,  were  you  with  Mr. 
Jones  when  he  was  watching  to  catch  a  thief 
who  had  been  stealing  from  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Cottingham,  "  I 
sot  up  wi'  him  one  night,  but  I  disremember 
in  pertickler  what  night  it  wuz." 

"  Did  you  see  the  thief  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Cottingham,  in  his 
deliberate  way,  looking  around  over  the 
court-room  with  a  more  judicial  air  than  the 
judge  on  the  bench,  "  ef  you  push  me  close 
I  '11  tell  you.  Ther  wuz  a  consid'able  flutter- 
ment  in  the  neighborhoods  er  whar  we  sot, 
an'  me  an'  Wash  done  some  mighty  sly  slip- 


146  ANANIAS. 

pin'  up  en  surrounderin' ;  but  ez  ter  seein* 
anybody,  we  did  n't  see  'im.  We  heerd  'm 
a-scufflin'  an'  a-runnin',  but  we  did  n't  ketch 
a  glimpse  un  'im,  nuther  har  ner  hide." 

"Did  Mr.  Jones  see  him?" 

"  No  more  'n  I  did.  I  wuz  right  at 
Wash's  elbow.  We  heerd  the  villyun  a-run 
nin',  but  we  never  seed  'im.  Atterwards, 
when  we  got  back  ter  the  house,  Wash  he 
'lowed  it  must  'a  bin  that  nigger  Ananias 
thar,  an'  I  'lowed  it  jess  mought  ez  well  be 
Ananias  ez  any  yuther  nigger,  bekaze  you 
know  yourself  —  " 

"That  will  do,  Mr.  Cottingham,"  said 
Mr.  Lawyer  Terrell,  blandly.  The  State's 
attorney  undertook  to  cross-examine  Mr. 
Cottingham ;  but  he  was  a  blundering  man, 
and  the  result  of  his  cross-examination  was 
simply  a  stronger  and  more  impressive  repe 
tition  of  Mr.  Cottingham's  testimony. 

After  this,  the  solicitor  was  willing  to  sub 
mit  the  case  to  the  jury  without  argument, 
but  Mr.  Terrell  said  that  if  it  pleased  the 
court  he  had  a  few  words  to  say  to  the  jury 
in  behalf  of  his  client.  The  speech  made 
by  the  State's  attorney  was  flat  and  stale, 
for  he  was  not  interested  in  the  case ;  but 
Lawyer  Terrell's  appeal  to  the  jury  is  still 


ANANIAS.  147 

remembered  in  Rockville.  It  was  not  only 
powerful,  but  inimitable  ;  it  was  humorous, 
pathetic,  and  eloquent.  When  he  concluded, 
the  jury,  which  was  composed  mostly  of 
middle-aged  men,  was  in  tears.  The  feel 
ings  of  the  spectators  were  also  wrought  up 
to  a  very  high  pitch,  and  when  the  jury 
found  a  verdict  of  "  not  guilty,"  without  re 
tiring,  the  people  in  the  court-room  made 
the  old  house  ring  again  with  applause. 

And  then  something  else  occurred.  Press 
ing  forward  through  the  crowd  came  Colo 
nel  Benjamin  Flewellen.  His  clothes  were 
a  trifle  shabby,  but  he  had  the  air  of  a 
prince  of  the  blood.  His  long  white  hair 
fell  on  his  shoulders,  and  his  movements 
were  as  precise  as  those  of  a  grenadier.  The 
spectators  made  way  for  him.  Those  near 
est  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  moist,  and 
that  his  nether  lip  was  a-tremble,  but  no 
one  made  any  remark.  Colonel  Flewellen 
pressed  forward  until  he  reached  Ananias, 
who,  scarcely  comprehending  the  situation, 
was  sitting  with  his  hands  folded  and  his 
head  bent  down.  The  colonel  placed  his 
hand  on  the  negro's  shoulder. 

"  Come,  boy,"  he  said,  "  let  's  go  home." 
"  Me,  Marster?  "  said  the  negro,  looking 


148  ANANIAS. 

up  with  a  dazed  expression.  It  was  the 
tone,  and  not  the  words,  that  Ananias  heard. 

"  Yes,  old  fellow,  your  Miss  Nelly  will  be 
waiting  for  us." 

"  Name  er  God  ! "  exclaimed  Ananias, 
and  then  he  arose  and  followed  his  old 
master  out  of  the  court-room.  Those  who 
watched  him  as  he  went  saw  that  the  tears 
were  streaming  down  his  face,  but  there  was 
no  rude  laughter  when  he  made  a  futile  at 
tempt  to  wipe  them  off  with  his  coat-tail. 
This  display  of  feeling  on  the  part  of  the 
negro  was  somewhat  surprising  to  those  who 
witnessed  it,  but  nobody  was  surprised  when 
Ananias  appeared  on  the  streets  a  few  days 
after  with  head  erect  and  happiness  in  his 
face. 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN? 


Now,  do  you  know  you  young  people  are 
mighty  queer  ?  Somebody  has  told  you  that 
he  heard  old  man  Isaiah  Winchell  a-gab- 
bling  about  old  times,  and  here  you  come 
fishing  for  what  you  call  a  story.  Why, 
bless  your  soul,  man,  it  is  no  story  at  all, 
just  a  happening,  as  my  wife  used  to  say. 
If  you  want  me  to  tell  what  there  is  of  it, 
there  must  be  some  understanding  about  it. 
You  know  what  ought  to  be  put  in  print 
and  what  ought  to  be  left  out.  I  would 
know  myself,  I  reckon,  if  I  stopped  to  think 
it  all  over  ;  but  there  's  the  trouble.  When 
I  get  started,  I  just  rattle  along  like  a  run 
away  horse.  I  'm  all  motion  and  no  sense, 
and  there  's  no  stopping  me  until  I  run  over 
a  stump  or  up  against  a  fence.  And  if  I 
tried  to  write  it  out,  it  would  be  pretty  much 
the  same.  When  I  take  a  pen  in  my  hand 
my  mind  takes  all  sorts  of  uncertain  flights, 
like  a  pigeon  with  a  hawk  after  it. 


15  0  WHERE  »S  D  UNCAN  f 

As  to  the  affair  you  were  speaking  of, 
there  's  not  much  to  tell,  but  it  has  pestered 
me  at  times  when  I  ought  to  have  been  in 
my  bed  and  sound  asleep.  I  have  told  it  a 
thousand  times,  and  the  rest  of  the  Win- 
chells  have  told  it,  thinking  it  was  a  very 
good  thing  to  have  in  the  family.  It  has 
been  exaggerated,  too;  but  if  I  can  carry 
the  facts  to  your  ear  just  as  they  are  in  my 
mind,  I  shall  be  glad,  for  I  want  to  get 
everything  straight  from  the  beginning. 

Well,  it  was  in  1826.  That  seems  a  long 
time  ago  to  you,  but  it  is  no  longer  than 
yesterday  to  me.  I  was  eighteen  years  old, 
and  a  right  smart  chunk  of  a  boy  for  rny 
age.  While  we  were  ginning  and  packing 
cotton  our  overseer  left  us,  and  my  father 
turned  the  whole  business  over  to  me.  Now, 
you  may  think  that  was  a  small  thing,  be 
cause  this  railroad  business  has  turned  your 
head,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  a  very 
big  thing.  It  fell  to  me  to  superintend  the 
ginning  and  the  packing  of  the  cotton,  and 
then  I  was  to  go  to  Augusta  in  charge  of 
two  wagons.  I  never  worked  harder  before 
nor  since.  You  see  we  had  no  packing- 
screws  nor  cotton-presses  in  those  days. 
The  planter  that  was  able  to  afford  it  had 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN*  151 

his  gin,  and  the  cotton  was  packed  in  round 
bales  by  a  nigger  who  used  something  like  a 
crowbar  to  do  the  packing.  He  trampled 
the  lint  cotton  with  his  feet,  and  beat  it 
down  with  his  iron  bar  until  the  bagging 
was  full,  and  then  the  bale  weighed  about 
three  hundred  pounds.  Naturally  you  laugh 
at  this  sort  of  thing,  but  it  was  no  laughing 
matter ;  it  was  hard  work. 

Well,  when  we  got  the  cotton  all  pre 
pared,  we  loaded  the  wagons  and  started  for 
Augusta.  We  had  n't  got  more  than  two 
miles  from  home,  before  I  found  that 
Crooked -leg  Jake,  my  best  driver,  was 
drunk.  He  was  beastly  drunk.  Where  he 
got  his  dram,  I  could  n't  tell  you  to  save  my 
life,  for  it  was  against  the  law  in  those  days 
to  sell  whiskey  to  a  nigger.  But  Crooked-leg 
Jake  had  it  and  he  was  full  of  it,  and  he 
had  to  be  pulled  off  of  the  mule  and  sent  to 
roost  on  top  of  the  cotton-bags.  It  was  not 
a  very  warm  roost  either,  but  it  was  warm 
enough  for  a  nigger  full  of  whiskey. 

This  was  not  a  good  thing  for  me  at  all, 
but  I  had  to  make  the  best  of  it.  More 
over,  I  had  to  do  what  I  had  never  done  be 
fore  —  I  had  to  drive  six  mules,  and  there 
was  only  one  rein  to  drive  them  with.  This 


152  WHERE'S  DUNCAN? 

was  the  fashion,  but  it  was  a  very  difficult 
matter  for  a  youngster  to  get  the  hang  of  it. 
You  jerk,  jerk,  jerked,  if  you  wanted  the 
lead  mule  to  turn  to  the  right,  and  you  pull, 
pull,  pulled  if  you  wanted  her  to  go  the  left. 
While  we  were  going  on  in  this  way,  with 
a  stubborn  mule  at  the  wheel  and  a  drunken 
nigger  on  the  wagon,  suddenly  there  came 
out  of  the  woods  a  thick-set,  dark-featured, 
black-bearded  man  with  a  bag  slung  across 
his  shoulder. 

"  Hello !  "  says  he  ;  "  you  must  be  a  new 
hand." 

"  It  would  take  a  very  old  hand,"  said  I, 
"  to  train  a  team  of  mules  to  meet  you  in 
the  road." 

"  Now,  there  you  have  me,"  said  he ;  and 
he  laughed  as  if  he  were  enjoying  a  very 
good  joke. 

"  Who  hitched  up  your  team  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  drunken  nigger,"  said  I. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  he ;  "I  might  have 
known  it.  The  lead -mule  is  on  the  off 
side." 

"  Why,  how  do  you  know  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  My  two  eyes  tell  me,"  he  replied ; 
"  they  are  pulling  crossways."  And  with 
that,  without  asking  anybody's  permission, 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN?  153 

he  unhitched  the  traces,  unbuckled  the  reins 
and  changed  the  places  of  the  two  front 
mules.  It  was  all  done  in  a  jiffy,  and  in 
such  a  light-hearted  manner  that  no  protest 
could  be  made  ;  and,  indeed,  no  protest  was 
necessary,  for  the  moment  the  team  started 
I  could  see  that  the  stranger  was  right. 
There  was  no  more  jerking  and  whipping  to 
be  done.  We  went  on  in  this  way  for  a 
mile  or  more,  when  suddenly  I  thought  to 
ask  the  stranger,  who  was  trudging  along 
good-humoredly  by  the  side  of  the  wagon,  if 
he  would  like  to  ride.  He  laughed  and  said 
he  would  n't  mind  it  if  I  would  let  him 
straddle  the  saddle-mule  ;  and  for  my  part  I 
had  no  objections. 

So  I  crawled  up  on  the  cotton  and  lay 
there  with  Crooked-leg  Jake.  I  had  been 
there  only  a  short  time  when  the  nigger 
awoke  and  saw  me.  He  looked  scared. 

"  Who  dat  drivin'  dem  mules,  Marse 
Isaiah  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  could  n't  tell  you  even  if  you  were 
sober,"  said  I.  "  The  lead-mule  was  hitched 
on  the  off-side,  and  the  man  that  is  driving 
rushed  out  of  the  woods,  fixed  her  right,  and 
since  then  we  have  been  making  good  time." 

"  Is  he  a  sho'  'nuff  w'ite  man,  Marse 
Isaiah?  "  asked  Jake. 


154  WHERE  >S  D  UNCAN  f 

"Well,  he  looks  like  he  is,"  said  I;  "but 
I  'm  not  certain  about  that." 

With  that  Jake  crawled  to  the  front  of 
the  wagon,  and  looked  over  at  the  driver. 
After  a  while  he  came  crawling  back. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  saw,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  dunner  whe'er 
dat  man 's  a  w'ite  man  or  not,  but  he 's  a-set- 
tin'  sideways  on  dat  saddle-mule,  en  every 
time  he  chirps,  dat  lead-mule  know  what  he 
talkin'  about.  Yasser.  She  do  dat.  Did 
you  say  he  come  outen  de  woods?  " 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  came  from,"  said 
I.  "  He 's  there,  and  he 's  driving  the 
mules." 

"  Yasser.  Dat 's  so.  He  's  dar  sho',  kaze 
I  seed  'im  wid  my  own  eyes.  He  look  like 
he  made  outen  flesh  en  blood,  en  yit  he 
mought  be  a  ha'nt ;  dey  ain't  no  tellin'. 
Dem  dar  mules  is  gwine  011  mos'  too  slick 
fer  ter  suit  me." 

Well,  the  upshot  of  it  was  that  the 
stranger  continued  to  drive.  He  made  him 
self  useful  during  the  day,  and  when  night 
came,  he  made  himself  musical ;  for  in  the 
pack  slung  across  his  back  was  a  fiddle,  and 
in  the  manipulation  of  this  instrument  he 
showed  a  power  and  a  mastery  which  are 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN?  155 

given  to  few  men  to  possess.  I  doubt 
whether  he  would  have  made  much  of  a 
show  on  the  stage,  but  I  have  heard  some  of 
your  modern  players,  and  none  of  them 
could  approach  him,  according  to  my  taste. 
1 11  tell  you  why.  They  all  seem  to  play 
the  music  for  the  music  itself,  but  this  man 
played  it  for  the  sake  of  what  it  reminded 
him  of.  I  remember  that  when  he  took  out 
his  fiddle  at  night,  as  he  invariably  did  if 
nobody  asked  him  to,  I  used  to  shut  my 
eyes  and  dream  dreams  that  I  have  never 
dreamed  since,  and  see  visions  that  are 
given  to  few  men  to  see.  If  I  were  younger 
I  could  describe  it  to  you,  but  an  old  man 
like  me  is  not  apt  at  such  descriptions. 

We  journeyed  on,  and,  as  we  journeyed, 
we  were  joined  by  other  wagons  hauling 
cotton,  until,  at  last,  there  was  quite  a  cara 
van  of  them  —  twenty,  at  least,  and  possi 
bly  more.  This  made  matters  very  lively, 
as  you  may  suppose,  especially  at  night, 
when  we  went  into  camp.  Then  there  were 
scenes  such  as  have  never  been  described  in 
any  of  the  books  that  profess  to  tell  about 
life  in  the  South  before  the  war.  After 
the  teams  had  been  fed  and  supper  cooked, 
the  niggers  would  sing,  dance  and  wrestle, 


156  WHERE'S  DUNCAN? 

and  the  white  men  would  gather  to  egg  them 
on,  or  sit  by  their  fires  and  tell  stories  or 
play  cards.  Sometimes  there  would  be  a 
fight,  and  that  was  exciting  ;  for  in  those 
days,  the  shotgun  was  mighty  handy  and  the 
dirk  was  usually  within  reach.  In  fact, 
there  was  every  amusement  that  such  a 
crowd  of  people  could  manage  to  squeeze  out 
of  such  an  occasion.  In  our  caravan  there 
were  more  than  a  dozen  fiddlers,  white  and 
black,  but  not  one  of  them  that  attracted  as 
much  attention  as  the  stranger  who  drove 
my  team.  When  he  was  in  the  humor  he 
could  entrance  the  whole  camp ;  but  it  was 
not  often  that  he  would  play,  and  it  fre 
quently  happened  that  he  and  I  would  go  to 
bed  under  our  wagon  while  the  rest  of  the 
teamsters  were  frolicking.  I  had  discovered 
that  he  was  a  good  man  to  have  along.  He 
knew  just  how  to  handle  the  mules,  he  knew 
all  the  roads,  he  knew  just  where  to  camp, 
and  he  knew  how  to  keep  Crooked-leg  Jake 
sober.  One  night  after  we  had  gone  to  bed 
he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  said  : 

"  To-morrow  night,  if  I  make  no  mistake, 
we  will  camp  within  a  few  miles  of  the 
Sandhills.  There  my  journey  ends,  and  yet 
you  have  never  asked  me  my  name." 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN?  157 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  you  are  a  much  older 
man  than  I  am,  and  I  had  a  notion  that  if 
you  wanted  me  to  know  your  name  you 
would  tell  me.  I  had  no  more  reason  for 
asking  it  than  you  have  for  hiding  it." 

He  lay  over  on  his  back  and  laughed. 

"You'll  find  out  better  than  that  when 
you  are  older,"  he  said,  and  then  he  con 
tinued  laughing  —  though  whether  it  was 
what  I  said  or  his  own  thoughts  that  tickled 
him,  I  had  no  means  of  knowing. 

"  Well,"  he  went  on,  after  a  while,  "  you 
are  as  clever  a  youngster  as  ever  I  met,  and 
I  ?ve  nothing  to  hide  from  you.  My  name 
is  Willis  Featherstone,  and  I  am  simply  a 
vagabond,  else  you  would  never  have  seen 
me  trudging  along  the  public  road  with  only 
a  fiddle  at  my  back;  but  I  have  a  rich 
daddy  hereabouts,  and  I'm  011  my  way  to 
see  how  he  is  getting  along.  Now,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  I  '11  give  you  a  riddle.  If  you  can't 
unriddle  it,  it  will  unriddle  itself.  A  father 
had  a  son.  He  sent  him  to  school  in  Au 
gusta,  until  he  was  fifteen.  By  that  time, 
the  father  grew  to  hate  the  son,  and  one 
day,  in  a  fit  of  anger,  sold  him  to  a  nigger 
speculator." 

"  How  could  that  be  ?  "  I  asked. 


158  WHERE'S  DUNCAN* 

"  That  is  a  part  of  the  riddle,"  said  he. 

"  Are  you  the  son?  " 

"That  is  another  part  of  the  same  rid 
dle." 

"  Where  was  the  son's  mother  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  In  the  riddle  —  in  the  riddle,"  he  re 
plied. 

I  could  not  unriddle  the  riddle,  but  it 
seemed  to  hint  at  some  such  villainy  as  I 
had  read  about  in  the  books  in  my  father's 
library.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  sold  his 
son  ;  that  was  enough  for  me.  It  gave  me 
matter  to  dream  on,  and  as  I  was  a  pretty 
heavy  feeder  in  those  days,  my  dreams  fol 
lowed  hard  on  each  other.  But  it  isn't 
worth  while  to  relate  them  here,  for  the 
things  that  actually  happened  were  infinitely 
worse  than  any  dream  could  be. 

As  Featherstone  had  foretold,  we  camped 
the  next  night  not  far  from  the  Sandhills, 
where  the  rich  people  of  Augusta  went 
every  summer  to  escape  the  heat  and  malaria 
of  the  city.  We  might  have  gone  on  and 
reached  Augusta  during  the  night,  but  both 
men  and  mules  were  tired,  and  of  the  entire 
caravan  only  one  wagon  went  forward.  I 
shall  remember  the  place  as  long  as  I  live. 
In  a  little  hollow,  surrounded  by  live-oaks  — 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN?  159 

we  call  them  water-oaks  up  here  —  was  a 
very  bold  spring,  and  around  and  about  was 
plenty  of  grass  for  the  mules.  It  was  some 
what  dry,  the  time  being  November,  but  it 
made  excellent  forage.  On  a  little  hill  be 
yond  the  spring  was  a  dwelling-house.  I 
came  to  have  a  pretty  good  view  of  it  after 
ward,  but  in  the  twilight  it  seemed  to  be  a 
very  substantial  building.  It  was  painted 
white  and  had  green  blinds,  and  it  sat  in 
the  midst  of  a  beautiful  grove  of  magnolias 
and  cedars.  I  remember,  too,  —  it  is  all 
impressed  on  my  mind  so  vividly  —  that  the 
avenue  leading  to  the  house  was  lined  on 
each  side  with  Lombardy  poplars,  and  their 
spindling  trunks  stood  clearly  out  against 
the  sky. 

While  I  was  helping  Featherstone  un 
hitch  and  unharness  the  mules,  he  suddenly 
remarked :  — 

"That's  the  place." 

"What  place?"  I  asked. 

"The    place    the    riddle   tells    about  - 
where  the  son  was  sold  by  his  father." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  by  way  of  saying  some 
thing,  "  what  can't  be  cured  must  be  en 
dured." 

"  You  are  a  very  clever  chap,"  he  said, 


160  WHERE'S  DUNCAN? 

after  a  while.  "  In  fact  you  are  the  best 
chap  I  have  seen  for  many  a  long  clay,  and 
I  like  you.  I  've  watched  you  like  a  hawk, 
and  I  know  you  have  a  mother  at  home." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  and  she  's  the  dearest  old 
mother  you  ever  saw.  I  wish  you  knew 
her." 

He  came  up  to  me,  laid  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  and  looked  into  my  face  with  an 
air  I  can  never  forget. 

"  That  is  the  trouble,"  said  he  ;  "I  don't 
know  her.  If  I  did  I  would  be  a  better 
man.  I  never  had  much  of  a  mother." 

With  that  he  turned  away,  and  soon  I 
heard  him  singing  softly  to  himself  as  he 
mended  a  piece  of  the  harness.  All  this 
time  Crooked-leg  Jake  was  cooking  our  sup 
per  beneath  the  live-oak  trees.  Other  team 
sters  were  doing  the  same,  so  that  there 
were  two  dozen  camp-fires  burning  brightly 
within  an  area  of  not  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  mile.  The  weather  was  pleasant,  too, 
and  the  whole  scene  struck  me  as  particu 
larly  lively. 

Crooked-leg  Jake  was  always  free-handed 
with  his  cooking.  He  went  at  it  with  a 
zest  born  of  his  own  insatiate  appetite,  and 
it  was  not  long  before  we  were  through  with 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN?  161 

it ;  and  while  the  other  campers  were  fum 
ing  and  stewing  over  their  cooking,  Jake 
was  sitting  by  the  fire  nodding,  and  Feather- 
stone  was  playing  his  fiddle.  He  never 
played  it  better  than  he  did  that  night,  and 
he  played  it  a  long  time,  while  I  sat  listen 
ing.  Meanwhile  quite  a  number  of  the 
teamsters  gathered  around,  some  reclining  in 
the  leaves  smoking  their  pipes,  and  others 
standing  around  in  various  positions.  Sud 
denly  I  discovered  that  Featherstone  had  a 
new  and  an  unexpected  auditor.  Just  how 
I  discovered  this  I  do  not  know;  it  must 
have  been  proned  in  upon  me,  as  the  niggers 
say.  I  observed  that  he  gripped  the  neck  of 
his  fiddle  a  little  tighter,  and  suddenly  he 
swung  off  from  "  Money-musk  "  into  one  of 
those  queer  serenades  which  you  have  heard 
now  and  again  on  the  plantation.  Where 
the  niggers  ever  picked  up  such  tunes  the 
Lord  only  knows,  but  they  are  heart-break 
ing  ones. 

Following  the  glance  of  Featherstone's 
eyes,  I  looked  around,  and  I  saw,  standing 
within  the  circle  of  teamsters,  a  tall  mulatto 
woman.  She  was  a  striking  figure  as  she 
stood  there  gazing  with  all  her  eyes,  and 
listening  with  all  her  ears.  Her  hair  was 


162  WHERE'S  DUNCAN? 

black  and  straight  as  that  of  an  Indian,  her 
cheeks  were  sunken,  and  there  was  that  in 
her  countenance  that  gave  her  a  wolfish  as 
pect.  As  she  stood  there  rubbing  her  skinny 
hands  together  and  moistening  her  thin  lips 
with  her  tongue,  she  looked  like  one  dis 
traught.  When  Featherstoue  stopped  play 
ing,  pretending  to  be  timing  his  fiddle,  the 
mulatto  woman  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
made  an  effort  to  smile.  Her  thin  lips  fell 
apart  and  her  white  teeth  gleamed  in  the 
firelight  like  so  many  fangs.  Finally  she 
spoke,  and  it  was  an  ungracious  speech  :  — 

"Ole  Giles  Featherstone,  up  yonder  — 
he 's  my  marster  —  he  sont  me  down  here 
an'  tole  me  to  tell  you-all  dat,  bein  's  he  got 
some  vittles  lef '  over  f um  dinner,  he  '11  be 
glad  ef  some  un  you  would  come  take  sup 
per  'long  wid  'im.  But,  gentermens "  — 
here  she  lowered  her  voice,  giving  it  a  most 
tragic  tone  —  "  you  better  not  go,  kaze  he 
ain't  got  nothin'  up  dar  dat 's  fittin'  ter  eat 
—  some  cole  scraps  an'  de  frame  uv  a  tur 
key.  He  scrimps  hisse'f,  an'  he  scrimps 
me,  an'  he  scrimps  eve'ybody  on  de  place, 
an'  he  '11  scrimp  you-all  ef  you  go  dar.  No, 
gentermens,  ef  you  des  got  corn-bread  an' 
bacon  you  better  stay  'way.'' 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN*  163 

Whatever  response  the  teamsters  might 
have  made  was  drowned  by  Featherstone's 
fiddle,  which  plunged  suddenly  into  the 
wild  and  plaintive  strains  of  a  plantation 
melody.  The  mulatto  woman  stood  like 
one  entranced  ;  she  caught  her  breath,  drew 
back  a  few  steps,  stretched  forth  her  ebony 
arms,  and  cried  out :  — 

"  Who  de  name  er  God  is  dat  man  ?  " 

With  that  Featherstone  stopped  his  play 
ing,  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  woman,  and  ex 
claimed  :  — 

"  Where 's  Duncan  f  " 

For  a  moment  the  woman  stood  like  one 
paralyzed.  She  gasped  for  breath,  her 
arms  jerked  convulsively,  and  there  was  a 
twitching  of  the  muscles  of  her  face  pitiful 
to  behold ;  then  she  rushed  forward  and  fell 
on  her  knees  at  the  fiddler's  feet,  hugging 
his  legs  with  her  arms. 

"  Honey,  who  is  you  ? "  she  cried  in  a 
loud  voice.  "  In  de  name  er  de  Lord,  who 
is  you !  Does  you  know  me  ?  Say,  honey, 
does  you  ?  " 

Featherstone  looked  at  the  writhing  wo 
man  serenely. 

"  Come,  now,"  he  said,  "  I  ask  you  once 
more,  Where  's  Duncan  ?  " 


164  WHERE'S  DUNCAN? 

His  tone  was  most  peculiar :  it  was  thrill 
ing,  indeed,  and  it  had  a  tremendous  effect 
on  the  woman.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  flung 
her  bony  arms  above  her  head,  and  ran  off 
into  the  darkness,  screaming  :  — 

"  He  sold  'im !  —  he  sold  Duncan !  He 
sold  my  onliest  boy  !  " 

This  she  kept  on  repeating  as  she  ran, 
and  her  voice  died  away  like  an  echo  in  the 
direction  of  the  house  on  the  hill.  There 
was  not  much  joking  among  the  teamsters 
over  this  episode,  and  somehow  there  was 
very  little  talk  of  any  kind.  None  of  us  ac 
cepted  the  invitation.  Featherstone  put  his 
fiddle  in  his  bag,  and  walked  off  toward  the 
wagons,  and  it  was  not  long  before  every 
body  had  turned  in  for  the  night. 

I  suppose  I  had  been  asleep  an  hour  when 
I  felt  some  one  shaking  me  by  the  shoulder. 
It  was  Crooked-leg  Jake. 

"  Marse  Isaiah,"  said  he,  "  dey  er  cuttin' 
up  a  mighty  rippit  up  dar  at  dat  house  on  de 
hill.  I  'spec'  somebody  better  go  up  dar." 

"  What  are  they  doing  ?  "  I  asked  him 
drowsily. 

"  Dey  er  cussin'  an'  gwine  on  scan'lous. 
Dat  ar  nigger  'oman,  she's  a-cussin'  out  de 
white  man,  an'  de  white  man,  he 's  a-cussin' 
back  at  her," 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN*  165 

"Where's  Featherstone  ? "  I  inquired, 
still  not  more  than  half  awake. 

"  Dat  what  make  me  come  atter  you,  suh. 
Dat  white  man  what  bin  'long  wid  us,  he  's 
up  dar,  an'  it  look  like  ter  me  dat  he  's  a- 
aggin'  de  fuss  on.  Dey  gwine  ter  be 
trouble  up  dar,  sho  ez  you  er  born." 

"Bosh!"  said  I,  "the  woman's  master 
will  call  her  up,  give  her  a  strapping,  and 
that  will  be  the  end  of  it." 

"  No,  suh  !  no,  suh  !  "  exclaimed  Jake  ; 
"  dat  ar  nigger  'oman  done  got  dat  white 
man  hacked.  Hit's  des  like  I  tell  you, 


mon! 


I  drove  Jake  off  to  bed,  turned  over  on 
my  pallet,  and  was  about  to  go  to  sleep 
again,  when  I  heard  quite  a  stir  in  the  camp. 
The  mules  and  horses  were  snorting  and  tug 
ging  at  their  halters,  the  chickens  on  the 
hill  were  cackling,  and  somewhere  near,  a 
flock  of  geese  was  screaming.  Just  then 
Crooked-leg  Jake  came  and  shook  me  by 
the  shoulder  again.  I  spoke  to  him  some 
what  sharply,  but  he  did  n't  seem  to  mind 
it. 

"What  I  tell  you,  Marse  Isaiah?"  he 
cried.  "Look  up  yonder!  Ef  dat  house 
ain't  afire  on  top,  den  Jake  's  a  liar ! ' 


166  WHERE'S  DUNCAN? 

I  turned  on  my  elbow,  and,  sure  enough, 
the  house  on  the  hill  was  outlined  in  flame. 
The  hungry,  yellow  tongues  of  fire  reached 
up  the  corners  and  ran  along  the  roof,  lapping 
the  shingles,  here  and  there,  as  if  blindly 
searching  for  food.  They  found  it,  too,  for 
by  the  time  I  reached  the  spot,  and  you 
may  be  sure  I  was  not  long  getting  there,  the 
whole  roof  was  in  a  blaze.  I  had  never  seen 
a  house  on  fire  before,  and  the  sight  of  it 
made  me  quake  ;  but  in  a  moment  I  had  for 
gotten  all  about  the  fire,  for  there,  right  be 
fore  my  eyes,  was  a  spectacle  that  will  haunt 
me  to  my  dying  day.  In  the  dining-room  — 
I  suppose  it  must  have  been  the  dining-room, 
for  there  was  a  sideboard  with  a  row  of  can 
dles  on  it  —  I  saw  the  mulatto  woman  (the 
same  that  had  acted  so  queerly  when  Feather- 
stone  had  asked  her  about  Duncan)  engaged 
in  an  encounter  with  a  gray-haired  white 
man.  The  candles  on  the  sideboard  and  the 
flaring  flames  without  lit  up  the  affair  until  it 
looked  like  some  of  the  spectacles  I  have  since 
seen  in  theatres,  only  it  was  more  terrible. 

It  was  plain  that  the  old  man  was  no 
match  for  the  woman,  but  he  fought  man 
fully  for  his  life.  Whatever  noise  they  made 
must  have  been  drowned  by  the  crackling 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN?  167 

and  roaring  of  the  flames  outside ;  but  they 
seemed  to  be  making  none  except  a  snarling 
sound  when  they  caught  their  breath,  like 
two  bull-dogs  fighting.  The  woman  had  a 
carving-knife  in  her  right  hand,  and  she  was 
endeavoring  to  push  the  white  man  against 
the  wall.  He,  on  his  side,  was  trying  to 
catch  and  hold  the  hand  in  which  the  woman 
held  the  knife,  and  was  also  making  a  fran 
tic  effort  to  keep  away  from  the  wall.  But 
the  woman  had  the  advantage ;  she  was 
younger  and  stronger,  and  desperate  as  he 
was,  she  was  more  desperate  still. 

Of  course,  it  is  a  very  easy  matter  to 
ask  why  some  of  my  companions  or  myself 
did  n't  rush  to  the  rescue.  I  think  such  an 
attempt  was  made;  but  the  roof  of  the 
house  was  ablaze  and  crackling  from  one  end 
to  the  other,  and  the  heat  and  smoke  were 
stifling.  The  smoke  and  flames,  instead  of 
springing  upward,  ranged  downward,  so  that 
before  anything  could  be  done,  the  build 
ing  appeared  to  be  a  solid  sheet  of  fire ;  but 
through  it  all  could  be  seen  the  writhing  and 
wrestling  of  the  nigger  woman  and  the  white 
man.  Once,  and  only  once,  did  I  catch  the 
sound  of  a  voice ;  it  was  the  voice  of  the  nig 
ger  woman ;  she  had  her  carving-knife  raised 


168  WHERE'S  DUNCAN* 

in  the  air  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
she  had  the  white  man  by  the  throat. 

"  Where's  Duncan?"  she  shrieked. 

If  the  man  had  been  disposed  to  reply,  he 
had  no  opportunity,  for  the  woman  had  no 
sooner  asked  the  question  than  she  plunged 
the  carving-knife  into  his  body,  not  only  once, 
but  twice.  It  was  a  sickening  sight,  indeed, 
and  I  closed  my  eyes  to  avoid  seeing  any 
more  of  it;  but  there  was  no  need  of  that, 
for  the  writhing  and  struggling  bodies  of  the 
two  fell  to  the  floor  and  so  disappeared  from 
sight. 

Immediately  afterward  there  was  a  tre 
mendous  crash.  The  roof  had  fallen  in,  and 
this  was  followed  by  an  eruption  of  sparks 
and  smoke  and  flame,  accompanied  by  a 
violent  roaring  noise  that  sounded  like  the 
culmination  of  a  storm.  It  was  so  loud  that 
it  aroused  the  pigeons  on  the  place,  and  a 
great  flock  of  them  began  circling  around 
the  burning  building.  Occasionally  one  more 
frightened  than  the  rest  would  dart  head 
long  into  the  flames,  and  it  was  curious  to 
see  the  way  it  disappeared.  There  would 
be  a  fizz  and  a  sputter,  and  the  poor  bird 
would  be  burnt  harder  than  a  crackling.  I 
observed  this  and  other  commonplace  things 


WHERE'S  DUNCAN*  169 

with  unusual  interest  —  an  interest  sharp 
ened,  perhaps,  by  the  fact  that  there  could 
be  no  hope  for  the  two  human  beings  on 
whom  the  roof  had  fallen. 

Naturally,  you  will  want  to  ask  me  a  great 
many  questions.  I  have  asked  them  myself 
a  thousand  times,  and  I  've  tried  to  dream 
the  answers  to  them  while  I  sat  dozing  here 
in  the  sun,  but  when  I  dream  about  the  af 
fair  at  all,  the  fumes  of  burning  flesh  seem 
to  fill  my  nostrils.  Crooked-leg  Jake  in 
sisted  to  the  day  of  his  death  that  the  man 
who  had  driven  our  team  sat  in  a  chair 
in  the  corner  of  the  dining-room,  while  the 
woman  and  the  man  were  fighting,  and 
seemed  to  be  enjoying  the  spectacle.  It 
may  be  so.  At  any  rate  none  of  us  ever 
saw  him  again.  As  for  the  rest,  you  know 
just  as  much  about  it  as  I  do. 


MOM  BI: 

HER  FRIENDS  AND  HER  ENEMIES. 


THE  little  town  of  Fairleigh,  in  South 
Carolina,  was  a  noted  place  before  the 
war,  whatever  it  may  be  now.  It  had  its 
atmosphere,  as  Judge  Waynecroft  used  to 
say,  and  that  atmosphere  was  one  of  distinc 
tion.  It  was  a  very  quiet  town,  but  there 
was  something  aristocratic,  something  ex 
clusive,  even  in  its  repose.  It  was  a  rough 
wind  that  could  disturb  the  stateliness  of 
the  live  oaks  with  which  the  streets  were 
lined,  and  it  was  indeed  an  inhospitable 
winter  that  could  suppress  the  tendency  of 
the  roses  to  bloom. 

Fairleigh  made  no  public  boast  that  it 
was  not  a  commercial  town,  but  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  it  prided  itself  on  the  fact. 
Even  the  piney-woods  crackers  found  a  slow 
market  there  for  the  little  "  truck  "  they  had 
to  sell,  for  it  was  the  custom  of  the  people 
to  get  their  supplies  of  all  kinds  from  "  the 


MOM  BI.  171 

city."  It  was  to  "  the  city,"  indeed,  that 
Fairleigh  owed  its  prominence,  and  its  in 
habitants  were  duly  mindful  of  that  fact. 

As  late  as  1854  there  was  no  more  insig 
nificant  village  in  South  Carolina  than  Fair 
leigh  ;  but  in  the  summer  of  that  year  the 
fever  plague  flapped  its  yellow  wings  above 
Charleston,  and  the  wealthier  families 
sought  safety  in  flight.  Some  went  North 
and  some  went  West ;  some  went  one  way 
and  some  another ;  but  the  choice  few,  fol 
lowing  the  example  of  Judge  Waynecroft, 
went  no  further  than  Fairleigh,  which  was 
far  enough  in  the  interior  to  be  out  of  reach 
of  the  contagion. 

They  found  the  situation  of  the  little  vil 
lage  so  convenient,  and  its  climate  so  per 
fect,  that  they  proceeded  —  still  following 
the  example  of  Judge  Waynecroft  —  to  build 
summer  homes  there  ;  and  in  time  Fairleigh 
became  noted  as  a  resort  for  the  wealthiest 
and  most  refined  people  of  Charleston. 

Of  this  movement,  as  has  been  intima 
ted,  Judge  Waynecroft  was  the  pioneer; 
and  for  this  and  other  reasons  he  was  highly 
esteemed  by  the  natives  of  Fairleigh.  To 
their  minds  the  Judge  was  an  able  and  a 
public-spirited  citizen,  whom  it  was  their 


172  MOM  SI. 

pleasure  to  admire.  In  addition  to  this,  he 
had  a  most  charming  household,  in  which 
simplicity  lent  grace  to  dignity. 

There  was  one  feature  of  Judge  Wayne- 
croft's  household,  however,  which  the  natives 
of  Fairleigh  did  not  admire,  and  that  was 
"  Mom  Bi."  Perhaps  they  were  justified 
in  this.  Mom  Bi  was  a  negro  woman,  who 
appeared  to  be  somewhat  past  middle  age, 
just  how  far  past  no  one  could  guess.  She 
was  tall  and  gaunt,  and  her  skin  was  black 
as  jet.  She  walked  rapidly,  but  with  a  side- 
wise  motion,  as  if  she  had  been  overtaken 
with  rheumatism  or  partial  paralysis.  Her 
left  arm  was  bent  and  withered,  and  she 
carried  it  in  front  of  her  and  across  her 
body,  as  one  would  hold  an  infant.  Her 
head-handkerchief  was  queerly  tied.  The 
folds  of  it  stood  straight  up  in  the  air,  giv 
ing  her  the  appearance  of  a  black  Amazon. 
This  impression  was  heightened  by  the  pe 
culiar  brightness  of  her  eyes.  They  were 
not  large  eyes,  but  they  shone  like  those 
of  a  wild  animal  that  is  not  afraid  of  the 
hunter.  Her  nose  was  not  flat,  nor  were  her 
lips  thick  like  those  of  the  typical  negro. 
Her  whole  appearance  was  aggressive. 
Moreover,  her  manner  was  abrupt,  and  her 


MOM  BL  173 

tongue  sharp,  especially  when  it  was  leveled 
at  any  of  the  natives  of  Fairleigh. 

To  do  Mom  Bi  justice,  her  manner  was 
abrupt  and  her  tongue  sharp  even  in  her 
master's  family,  but  there  these  matters 
were  understood.  Practically,  she  ruled 
the  household,  and  though  she  quarreled 
from  morning  till  night,  and  sometimes  far 
into  the  night,  everything  she  said  was 
taken  in  a  Pickwickian  sense.  She  was  an 
old  family  servant  who  not  only  had  large 
privileges,  but  was  defiantly  anxious  to  take 
advantage  of  all  of  them. 

Whatever  effect  slavery  may  have  had  on 
other  negroes,  or  on  negroes  in  general,  it 
is  certain  that  Mom  Bi's  spirit  remained 
unbroken.  Whoever  crossed  her  in  the 
least,  white  or  black,  old  or  young,  got  "a 
piece  of  her  mind,"  and  it  was  usually  a 
very  large  piece.  Naturally  enough,  under 
the  circumstances,  Mom  Bi  soon  became  as 
well  known  in  Fairleigh  and  in  all  the  re 
gion  round  about  as  any  of  the  "  quality 
people."  To  some,  her  characteristics  were 
intensely  irritating;  while  to  others  they 
were  simply  amusing ;  but  to  all  she  was  a 
unique  figure,  superior  in  her  methods  and 
ideas  to  the  common  run  of  negroes. 


174  MOM  BL 

Once,  after  having  a  quarrel  with  her 
mistress  —  a  quarrel  which  was  a  one-sided 
affair,  however  —  Mom  Bi  heard  one  of  the 
house  girls  making  an  effort  to  follow  her 
example.  The  girl  was  making  some  im 
pertinent  remarks  to  her  mistress,  when 
Mom  Bi  seized  a  dog-whip  that  was  hanging 
in  the  hall,  and  used  it  with  such  effect  that 
the  pert  young  wench  remembered  it  for 
many  a  long  day. 

This  was  Mom  Bi's  way.  She  was  ready 
enough  to  quarrel  with  each  and  every  mem 
ber  of  her  master's  family,  but  she  was 
ready  to  defend  the  entire  household  against 
any  and  all  comers.  Altogether  she  was  a 
queer  combination  of  tyrant  and  servant,  of 
virago  and  "  mammy."  Yet  her  master 
and  mistress  appreciated  and  respected  her, 
and  the  children  loved  her.  Her  strong 
individuality  was  not  misunderstood  by 
those  who  knew  her  best. 

No  one  knew  just  how  old  she  was,  and 
no  one  knew  her  real  name.  Probably  no 
one  cared :  but  there  was  a  tradition  in  the 
Waynecroft  family  that  her  name  was  Viola, 
and  that  it  had  been  corrupted  by  the  chil 
dren  into  Bi —  Mom  Bi.  As  to  her  age,  it 
is  sufficient  to  say  that  she  was  the  self- 


MOM  BI.  175 

constituted  repository  of  the  oral  history  of 
three  generations  of  the  family.  She  was  a 
young  woman  when  her  master's  grandfather 
died  in  1799.  Good,  bad  or  indifferent, 
Mom  Bi  knew  all  about  the  family  ;  and 
there  were  passages  in  the  careers  of  some 
of  its  members  that  she  was  fond  of  retail 
ing  to  her  master  and  mistress,  especially 
when  in  a  bad  humor. 

Insignificant  as  she  was,  Mom  Bi  made 
her  influence  felt  in  Fairleigh.  She  was  re 
spected  in  her  master's  family  for  her  hon 
esty  and  faithfulness,  but  outsiders  shrank 
from  her  frank  and  fearless  criticism.  The 
"  sandhillers  "  —  the  tackies  —  that  mar 
keted  their  poor  little  crops  in  and  around 
the  village,  were  the  special  objects  of  her 
aversion,  and  she  lost  no  opportunity  of 
harassing  them.  Whether  these  queer  peo 
ple  regarded  Mom  Bi  as  a  humorist  of  the 
grimmer  sort,  or  whether  they  were  indiffer 
ent  to  her  opinions,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
say,  but  it  is  certain  that  her  remarks,  no 
matter  how  personal  or  bitter,  made  little 
impression  on  them.  The  men  would  rub 
their  thin  beards,  nudge  each  other  and 
laugh  silently,  while  the  women  would  push 
their  sunbonnets  back  and  stare  at  her  as  if 


176  MOM  BL 

she  were  some  rare  curiosity  on  exhibition. 
At  such  times  Mom  Bi  would  laugh  loudly 
and  maliciously,  and  cry  out  in  a  shrill  and 
an  irritating  tone :  — 

"  De  Lord  know,  I  glad  I  nigger.  Ef  I 
ain't  bin  born  black,  dee  ain't  no  tellin,  what 
I  mought  bin  born.  I  mought  bin  born  lak 
some  deze  white  folks  what  eat  dirt  un  set 
in  de  chimerly-corner  tell  dee  look  lak  dee 
bin  smoke-dried.  De  Lord  know  what 
make  Jesse  Waynecroft  fetch  he  famerly 
'mongst  folk  lak  deze." 

This  was  mildness  itself  compared  with 
some  of  Mom  Bi's  harangues  later  on,  when 
the"  sandhillers,"  urged  by  some  of  the  ener 
getic  citizens  of  the  village,  were  forming  a 
military  company  to  be  offered  to  the  Gover 
nor  of  Virginia  for  the  defense  of  that 
State.  This  was  in  the  summer  of  1861. 
There  was  a  great  stir  in  the  South.  The 
martial  spirit  of  the  people  had  been  aroused 
by  the  fiery  eloquence  of  the  political  lead 
ers,  and  the  volunteers  were  mustering  in 
every  town  and  village.  The  "  sandhillers  " 
were  not  particularly  enthusiastic  —  they 
had  but  vague  ideas  of  the  issues  at  stake 
—  but  the  military  business  was  something 
new  to  them,  and  therefore  alluring.  They 


MOM  BI.  177 

volunteered  readily  if  not  cheerfully,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  there  was  a  company  of 
them  mustering  under  the  name  of  the  Rifle 
Rangers  —  an  attractive  title  to  the  ear  if 
not  to  the  understanding. 

Mom  Bi  was  very  much  interested  in  the 
maneuvers  of  the  Rifle  Rangers.  She 
watched  them  with  a  scornful  and  a  critical 
eye.  Even  in  their  uniforms,  which  were 
of  the  holiday  pattern,  their  appearance  was 
the  reverse  of  soldierly.  They  were  hollow- 
chested  and  round-shouldered,  and  exceed 
ingly  awkward  in  all  their  movements. 
Their  maneuvers  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
village,  accompanied  by  the  music  of  fife 
and  drum,  always  drew  a  crowd  of  idlers, 
and  among  these  interested  spectators  Mom 
Bi  was  usually  to  be  found. 

"  Dee  gwine  fight,"  she  would  say  to  the 
Waynecroft  children,  in  her  loud  and  rasping- 
voice.  "  Dee  gwine  kill  folks  right  un  left. 
Look  at  um!  I  done  git  skeer'd  myse'f, 
dee  look  so  'vigrous.  Ki !  dee  gwine  eat 
dem  Yankee  up  fer  true.  I  sorry  fer  dem 
Yankee,  un  I  skeer'd  fer  myse'f!  When 
dee  smell  dem  vittle  what  dem  Yankee  got, 
't  is  good-by,  Yankee !  Look  at  um,  honey ! 
dee  gwine  fight  fer  rich  folks'  nigger." 


178  MOM  BL 

The  drilling  and  mustering  went  on,  how 
ever,  and  Mom  Bi  was  permitted  to  say 
what  she  pleased.  Some  laughed  at  her, 
others  regarded  her  with  something  like  su 
perstitious  awe,  while  a  great  many  thought 
she  was  merely  a  harmless  simpleton. 
Above  all,  she  was  Judge  Waynecroft's 
family  servant,  and  this  fact  was  an  ample 
apology  in  Fairleigh  and  its  environs  for 
anything  that  she  might  say. 

The  mustering  of  the  "  sandhillers  "  irri 
tated  Mom  Bi;  but  when  the  family  re 
turned  to  Charleston  in  the  winter,  the 
preparations  for  war  that  she  saw  going  on 
made  a  definite  and  profound  impression  on 
her.  At  night  she  would  go  into  her  mis 
tress's  room,  sit  on  the  hearth  in  a  corner  of 
the  fire-place,  and  watch  the  fire  in  the 
grate.  Nursing  her  withered  arm,  she 
would  sit  silent  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  and 
when  she  did  speak  it  seemed  as  if  her 
tongue  had  lost  something  of  its  character 
istic  asperity. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Waynecroft,  on  one 
occasion,  "  that  Mom  Bi  is  getting  religion." 

"  Well,  she  '11  never  get  it  any  younger," 
the  Judge  replied. 

Mom  Bi,  sitting  in  her  corner,  pretended 


MOM  BI.  179 

not  to  hear,  but  after  a  while  she  said  :  "  Ef 
de  Lord  call  me  in  de  chu'ch,  I  gwine ;  ef 
he  no  call  I  no  gwine  —  enty  ?  I  no  yerry 
him  call  dis  long  time." 

"  Well,"  remarked  the  Judge,  "  some 
thing  has  cooled  you  off  and  toned  you 
down,  and  I  was  in  hopes  you  were  in  the 
mourners'  seat." 

"  Huh  !  "  exclaimed  Mom  Bi.  "  How 
come  I  gwine  go  in  mourner  seat?  What 
I  gwine  do  in  dey  ?  "  Then  pointing  to  a 
portrait  of  Gabriel  Waynecroft  hanging  over 
the  mantel,  she  cried  out :  "  Wey  he  bin 
gone  at?" 

Gabriel  was  the  eldest  son,  the  hope  and 
pride  of  the  family.  The  Judge  and  his 
wife  looked  at  each  other. 

"  I  think  you  know  where  he  has  gone," 
said  Mrs.  Waynecroft,  gently.  "  He  has 
gone  to  fight  for  his  country." 

"Huh  !  "  the  old  woman  grunted  Then, 
after  a  pause,  "Wey  dem  san'hillers  bin 
gone  at  ?  Wey  de  country  what  dee  fight 
fer?" 

"Why,  what  are  you  talking  about?" 
said  Judge  Waynecroft,  who  had  been  lis 
tening  behind  his  newspaper.  "  This  is  their 
country  too,  and  they  have  gone  to  fight  for 
it." 


180  MOM  BL 

"  'Longside  dat  boy  ?  "  Mom  Bi  asked. 
Her  voice  rose  as  she  pointed  at  Gabriel's 
picture. 

"  Why,  certainly,"  said  the  Judge. 

"  Pishou !  "  exclaimed  Mom  Bi,  with  a 
hiss  that  was  the  very  essence  of  scorn,  con 
tempt  and  unbelief.  "Oona  nee'n'  tell  me 
dat  ting.  I  nuttin'  but  nigger  fer  true,  but 
I  know  better  dun  dat.  I  bin  iiuss  dat  boy, 
un  I  know  um  troo  un  troo.  Dat  boy,  'e 
cut  'e  t'roat  fus'  fo'  'e  fight  'longside  dem 
trash.  When  'e  be  en  tell-a  you  'e  gwine 
fight  'longside  dem  whut  de  Lord  done  fer- 
sooken  dis  long  time  ?  " 

The  Judge  smiled,  but  Mrs.  Waynecroft 
looked  serious;  Mom  Bi  rocked  backward 
and  forward,  as  if  nursing  her  withered 
arm. 

"  Whut  dem  po'  white  trash  gwiue  fight 
fer?  Nuttin'  'tall  ain't  bin  tell  me  dat. 
Dee  ain't  bin  had  no  nigger;  dee  ain't  bin 
had  no  money ;  dee  ain't  bin  had  no  Ian' ; 
dee  ain't  bin  had  nuttin'  't  all.  Un  den  'pun 
top  er  dat,  yer  come  folks  fer  tell  me  dat 
dat  boy  gwine  fight  'longside  dem  creeturs." 

Mom  Bi  laughed  loudly,  and  shook  her 
long  finger  at  the  portrait  of  young  Gabriel 
Waynecroft.  As  a  work  of  art  the  portrait 


MOM  BL  181 

was  a  failure,  having  been  painted  by  an 
ambitious  amateur ;  but,  crude  as  it  was, 
it  showed  a  face  of  wonderful  refinement. 
The  features  were  as  delicate  as  those  of 
a  woman,  with  the  exception  of  the  chin, 
which  was  full  and  firm.  The  eyes,  large 
and  lustrous,  gazed  from  the  canvas  with  a 
suggestion  of  both  tenderness  and  fearless 
ness. 

During  the  long  and  dreary  days  that  fol 
lowed—days  of  waiting,  days  of  suffering 
and  of  sorrow  —  there  were  many  changes 
in  the  Waynecroft  household,  but  Mom  Bi 
held  her  place.  She  remained  as  virile  and 
as  active  as  ever.  If  any  change  was  notice 
able  it  was  that  her  temper  was  more  uncer 
tain  and  her  voice  shriller.  All  her  talk 
was  about  the  war ;  and  as  the  contest  wore 
on,  with  no  perceptible  advantage  to  the 
Confederates,  she  assumed  the  character  and 
functions  of  a  prophetess.  Among  the  ne 
groes,  especially  those  who  had  never  come 
in  familiar  contact  with  the  whites,  she  was 
looked  upon  as  a  person  to  be  feared  and 
respected.  Naturally,  they  argued  that  any 
black  who  talked  to  the  white  people  as 
Mom  Bi  did  must  possess  at  least  sufficient 
occult  power  to  escape  punishment. 


182  MOM  BL 

Sometimes,  in  the  pleasant  weather,  while 
walking  with  her  mistress  and  the  children 
on  the  battery  at  Charleston  she  would  reach 
forth  her  hand  and  exclaim  : 

"Oona  see  dem  wharfs?  Dee  gwine  be 
fill  wid  Yankee  ships !  Dee  gwine  sail  right 
stret  up,  un  nuttin'  't  all  gwine  stop  um." 

Then,  turning  to  the  town,  she  would  say : 

"  Oona  see  dem  street  ?  Dee  gwine  fair 
swarm  wid  Yankee  !  Dee  gwine  march  troo 
'urn,  un  nuttin'  't  all  gwine  stop  um.  Oona 
see  dem  gang  er  nigger  down  dey?  Dee 
gwine  be  free,  un  nuttin'  't  all  gwine  stop  um. 
Dee  '1  be  free,  un  ole  Bi  gwine  be  free.  Ah, 
Lord !  when  de  drum  start  fer  beat,  un  de 
trumpet  start  fer  blow,  de  white  folks  gwine 
los  de  nigger.  Ki !  I  mos'  yeddy  dem  now." 

This  was  repeated,  not  once,  but  hundreds 
of  times  —  in  the  house  and  on  the  streets, 
wherever  Mom  Bi  went.  At  the  mafket, 
while  the  venders  were  weighing  out  sup 
plies  for  the  Waynecroft  household,  Mom 
Bi  would  take  advantage  of  the  occasion  to 
preach  a  sermon  about  the  war  and  to  utter 
prophecies  about  the  freedom  of  the  negroes. 
Her  fearlessness  was  her  best  protection. 
Those  whe  heard  her  had  no  doubt  that  she 
was  a  lunatic,  and  so  she  was  allowed  to 


MOM  SI.  183 

come  and  go  in  peace,  at  a  time  when  the 
great  mass  of  the  negroes  were  under  the 
strictest  surveillance.  It  made  no  difference 
to  Mom  Bi,  however,  whether  one  or  a  thou 
sand  eyes  were  watching  her,  or  whether  the 
whole  world  thought  she  was  crazy.  She 
was  in  earnest,  and  thus  presented  a  specta 
cle  that  is  rarer  than  a  great  many  people 
are  willing  to  admit. 

The  old  woman  went  her  way,  affording 
amusement  to  some  and  to  others  food  for 
thought ;  and  the  rest  of  the  world  went  its 
way,  especially  that  part  of  it  that  was 
watching  events  from  rifle-pits  and  trenches. 
To  those  at  home  the  years  seemed  to  drag, 
though  they  went  fast  enough,  no  doubt,  for 
those  at  the  front.  They  went  fast  enough 
to  mark  some  marvelous  changes  and  devel 
opments.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  times, 
it  happened  that  a  gun  fired  in  Virginia 
sorely  wounded  the  hearts  of  a  household 
far  away. 

On  the  Shenandoah,  one  night,  a  sharp 
shooter  in  blue  heard  the  clatter  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  turnpike,  and  the  jangling  of 
sword,  spurs  and  bit.  As  the  horseman 
came  into  view  in  the  moonlight,  the  sharp 
shooter  leveled  his  rifle.  There  was  a  flash. 


184  MOM  ST. 

a  puff  of  smoke,  and  a  report  that  broke 
into  a  hundred  crackling  echoes  on  the  still 
night  air.  The  horse  that  had  been  held  so 
well  in  hand  galloped  wildly  away  with  an 
empty  saddle.  The  comrades  of  the  caval 
ryman,  who  had  been  following  him  at  a 
little  distance,  rushed  forward  at  the  report 
of  the  gun,  and  found  their  handsome  young 
officer  lying  in  the  road,  dead.  They  scoured 
the  country  for  some  distance  around,  but 
they  saw  nothing  and  heard  nothing,  and 
finally  they  lifted  the  dead  soldier  to  a 
horse,  and  carried  him  back  to  their  camp. 

The  sharpshooter  had  aimed  only  at  the 
dashing  young  cavalryman,  but  his  shot 
struck  a  father  and  a  mother  in  Charleston, 
and  an  old  negro  woman  who  was  supposed 
to  be  crazy ;  and  the  wounds  that  it  made 
were  grievous.  The  cavalryman  was  young 
Gabriel  Waynecroft,  and  with  the  ending  of 
his  life  the  hope  and  expectations  of  the 
family  seemed  to  be  blotted  out.  He  had 
been  the  darling  of  the  household,  the  pride 
of  his  father,  the  joy  of  his  mother,  and  the 
idol  of  Mom  Bi.  When  the  news  of  his 
death  came,  the  grief  of  the  household  took 
the  shape  of  consternation.  It  was  terrible 
to  behold.  The  mother  was  prostrated  and 


MOM  BL  185 

the  father  crushed.  Their  sorrow  was  voice 
less.  Mom  Bi  went  about  wringing  her 
hands  and  moaning  and  talking  to  herself 
day  after  day. 

Once,  Judge  Waynecroft,  passing  through 
the  hall  in  slippered  feet,  thought  he  heard 
voices  in  the  sitting-room.  In  an  aimless 
way,  he  glanced  in  the  room,  and  the  sight 
made  him  pause.  Mom  Bi  was  sitting  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  in  a  low  chair,  gaz 
ing  at  the  portrait  of  Gabriel  Waynecroft, 
and  talking  to  it.  She  spoke  in  a  soft  and 
tender  tone,  in  strange  contrast  to  the  usual 
rasping  and  irritating  quality  of  her  voice. 

"  Look  at  me,  honey,"  she  was  saying ; 
"  look  at  you'  ole  nigger  mammy !  Whut 
make  dee  lef '  you  f er  go  way  down,  dey  wey 
one  folks  kill  turrer  folks  ?  Tell  de  ole  nig 
ger  mammy  dat,  honey.  Whaffer  dee  no 
lef  dem  no  'count  san'hillers  fer  do  all  de 
fightin'  ?  Who  gwine  fer  cry  wun  dee  git 
kilt?  Fightin'  fer  nigger!  Whaffer  you' 
daddy  no  sen'  he  niggers  fer  fight  ?  De 
Lord  know  dee  plenty  un  um.  Nummine, 
honey  !  'T  aint  gwine  fer  be  long,  'fo'  dee  '11 
all  know  whut  de  Lord  know,  un  whut  ole 
Bi  know.  Gi'  um  time,  honey  !  des  gi'  um 
time ! " 


186  MOM  EL 

Judge  Waynecroft  turned  away  with  a 
groan.  To  behold  the  bewildered  grief  of 
this  old  negro  woman  was  to  add  a  new 
pang  to  his  own  sorrow.  Mom  Bi  paused, 
but  did  not  turn  her  head.  She  heard  her 
master  pass  down  the  hall  with  uncertain 
step,  and  then  she  heard  the  library  door 
shut. 

"  'Tis  de  gospel  troot  'e  bin  yeddy  me 
preachin',''  she  exclaimed.  Then  she  turned 
again  to  the  portrait  and  gazed  at  it  stead 
ily  and  in  silence  for  a  long  while,  rocking 
herself  and  nursing  her  withered  arm. 

When  the  body  of  Gabriel  Waynecroft 
was  brought  home,  Mom  Bi  kneeled  on  the 
floor  at  the  foot  of  the  coffin  and  stayed 
there,  giving  utterance  to  the  wildest  lamen 
tations.  Some  friend  or  acquaintance  of  the 
family  made  an  attempt  to  remove  her. 

"  This  will  never  do,"  he  said  kindly,  but 
firmly.  "You  must  get  up  and  go  away. 
The  noise  you  are  making  distresses  and  dis 
turbs  the  family." 

Trembling  with  mingled  grief  and  rage, 
Mom  Bi  turned  upon  the  officious  person. 

"  I  ain't,  I  ain't,  I  ain't !  "  she  almost 
shrieked.  "  I  gwine  fer  stay  right  wey  I  is. 
Take  you'  han'  fum  off  me,  man !  I  bin  cry 


MOM  BI.  187 

on  count  dat  chile  mos'  'fo'  he  own  mammy 
is.  I  bin  nuss  um,  I  bin  worry  wid  um,  I 
bin  stay  'wake  wid  um  wun  ev'body  wuz 
sleep,  un  I  bin  hoF  um  in  my  lap  day  un 
night,  wun  'e  sick  un  wun  'e  well.  I  ain't 
gwine  out !  I  ain't !  I  ain't !  " 

In  fine,  Mom  Bi  made  a  terrible  scene, 
and  the  officious  person  who  wanted  to  drive 
her  out  was  glad  to  get  out  himself,  which 
he  was  compelled  to  do  in  order  to  escape 
the  clamor  that  he  had  unwittingly  raised. 

The  death  and  burial  of  Gabriel  Wayne- 
croft  was  a  gloomy  episode  in  Mom  Bi's  ex 
perience,  and  it  left  its  marks  upon  her. 
She  lost  none  of  her  old-time  vigor,  but  her 
temper  became  almost  unbearable.  She  was 
surly,  irritable  and  sometimes  violent,  espe 
cially  toward  the  negroes  on  the  place,  who 
regarded  her  with  a  superstitious  fear  that 
would  be  difficult  to  explain  or  describe. 
Left  to  herself  she  did  well  enough.  She 
loved  to  sit  in  the  sun  and  talk  to  herself. 
The  other  negroes  had  a  theory  that  she 
saw  spirits  and  conversed  with  them;  but 
they  were  welcome  to  their  theories,  so  far 
as  Mom  Bi  was  concerned,  provided  they 
did  n't  pester  her. 

Meanwhile,  Sherman's  army  was  march- 


188  MOM  BI. 

ing  through  Georgia  to  Savannah,  and  in 
Virginia  Grant  was  arranging  the  plans  of 
his  last  campaign.  Savannah  fell,  and  then 
came  the  information  that  Sherman's  army 
was  moving  on  Charleston.  The  city  could 
be  defended  in  only  one  direction  :  all  its 
bristles  pointed  seaward ;  and  the  Confeder 
ate  troops  prepared  to  evacuate.  All  these 
movements  were  well  known  to  the  negroes, 
especially  to  Mom  Bi,  and  she  made  use  of 
her  information  to  renew  her  prophecies. 
She  stood  in  the  porch  of  her  master's  house 
and  watched  the  Confederates  file  by,  greet 
ing  them  occasionally  with  irritating  com 
ment. 

"  Hi !  Wey  you  gwine  ?  Whaif er  you  no 
stop  f er  tell  folks  good-by  ?  Nummine ! 
Dem  Yankee  buckra,  dee  gwine  shaky  you 
by  de  han'.  Dee  mek  you  hot  fer  true. 
Wey  you  no  stop  fer  see  de  nigger  come 
free?" 

Most  of  Mom  Bi's  prophecies  came  true. 
Sherman  marched  northward,  and  then  came 
Appomattox.  One  day,  shortly  after  the 
surrender,  Mom  Bi  appeared  before  Judge 
Waynecroft  and  his  wife  rigged  out  in  her 
best  clothes.  She  was  rather  more  subdued 
than  usual.  She  entered  the  room,  and  then 


MOM  BL  189 

stood  still,  looking  first  at  one  and  then  at 
the  other. 

"Well,  Bi,"  said  the  Judge,  kindly, 
u  what  can  we  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Nuttin'  't  all.  I  gwine  down  dey  at  Sa- 
wanny,  wey  my  daughter  is  bin  live." 

"  Do  you  mean  Maria  ?  " 

"  My  daughter  'Ria,  w'at  you  bin  sell  to 
John  Waynecroft.  I  gwine  down  dey  wey 
she  live  at." 

"  Why,  you  are  too  old  to  be  gadding 
about,"  said  the  Judge.  "  Why  not  stay 
here  where  you  have  a  comfortable  home  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  very  foolish  to  even 
dream  of  such  a  thing,  Mom  Bi.  Maria  is 
not  able  to  take  care  of  you." 

"  I  gwine  down  dey  wey  my  daughter  bin 
live  at,"  persisted  Mom  Bi.  Then  she 
looked  at  the  portrait  of  Gabriel  Wayne- 
croft.  The  beautiful  boyish  face  seemed  to 
arouse  her.  Turning  suddenly,  she  ex 
claimed  : 

"  De  Lord  know  I  done  bin  fergive  you- 
all  fer  sellin'  'Ria  'way  fum  me.  De  Lord 
know  I  is !  Wun  I  bin  see  you  set  down 
un  let  dat  chile  go  off  fer  git  kill'  "  —  Mom 
Bi  pointed  her  long  and  quivering  finger  at 
Gabriel's  portrait  —  "  wun  I  see  dis,  I  say 


190  MOM  EL 

4  hush  up,  nigger  !  don't  bodder  'bout  'Ria.' 
De  Lord  know  I  done  bin  fergive  you !  " 

With  this  Mom  Bi  turned  to  the  door 
and  passed  out. 

"  Won't  you  tell  us  good-by  ?  "  the  Judge 
asked. 

"  I  done  bin  fergive  you,"  said  Mom  Bi. 

"  I  think  you  might  tell  us  good-by,"  said 
Mrs.  Waynecroft,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  and 
voice. 

"  I  done  bin  fergive  you,"  was  the  answer. 

This  was  in  June.  One  morning  months 
afterward  Judge  Waynecroft  was  informed 
by  a  policeman  that  a  crazy  old  negro  wo 
man  had  been  arrested  in  the  cemetery. 

"  She  is  continually  talking  about  Gabriel 
Waynecroft,"  said  the  officer,  "  and  the 
Captain  thought  you  might  know  something 
about  her.  She's  got  the  temper  of  Old 
Harry,"  he  continued,  "  and  old  and  crippled 
as  she  is,  she's  as  strong  as  a  bull  yearling." 

It  was  Mom  Bi,  and  she  was  carried  to 
her  old  master's  home.  Little  by  little  she 
told  the  story  of  her  visit  to  Savannah.  She 
found  her  daughter  and  her  family  in  a 
most  deplorable  condition.  The  children 
had  the  small-pox,  and  finally  Maria  was 
seized  with  the  disease.  For  lack  of  food 


MOM  BL  191 

and  proper  attention  they  all  died,  and  Mom 
Bi  found  herself  alone  and  friendless  in  a 
strange  city.  How  she  managed  to  make 
her  way  back  home  it  is  impossible  to  say, 
but  she  returned. 

The  Mom  Bi  who  returned,  however,  was 
not  the  same  Mom  Bi  that  went  away.  Old 
age  had  overtaken  her  in  Savannah.  Her 
eyes  were  hollow,  her  face  was  pinched  and 
shrunken,  the  flesh  on  her  bones  had  shriv 
eled,  and  her  limbs  shook  as  with  the  palsy. 
When  she  was  helped  into  the  house  that 
had  so  long  been  her  home  she  looked 
around  at  the  furniture  and  the  walls.  Fi 
nally  her  eyes  rested  on  the  portrait  of  Ga 
briel  Waynecroft.  She  smiled  a  little  and 
then  said  feebly : 

"  I  done  bin  come  back.  I  bin  come  back 
fer  stay  ;  but  I  free,  dough  !  " 

In  a  little  while  she  was  freer  still.  She 
had  passed  beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  care 
or  pain ;  and,  as  in  the  old  days,  she  went 
without  bidding  her  friends  good-by. 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 


I. 

ONE  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  spring  of 
1876,  as  Farmer  Joe-Bob  Grissom  was  on 
his  way  to  Hillsborough  for  the  purpose  of 
hearing  the  news  and  having  an  evening's 
chat  with  his  town  acquaintances,  —  as  was 
his  invariable  custom  at  the  close  of  the 
week,  —  he  saw,  as  he  passed  the  old  Bas- 
com  Place,  an  old  gentleman  and  a  young 
lady  walking  slowly  along  the  road.  The 
old  gentleman  was  tall  and  thin,  and  had  sil 
very  white  hair.  He  wore  a  high-crowned, 
wide-brimmed  felt  hat,  and  his  clothes, 
though  neat,  were  too  glossy  to  be  new. 
The  young  lady  was  just  developing  into 
womanhood.  She  had  a  striking  face  and 
figure.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  brilliantly 
black;  her  hair,  escaping  from  under  her 
straw  hat  with  its  scarlet  ribbons,  fell  in 
dusky  masses  to  her  waist. 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     193 

The  two  walked  slowly,  and  occasionally 
they  paused  while  the  old  gentleman  pointed 
in  various  directions  with  his  cane,  as  though 
impressing  on  the  mind  of  his  companion 
the  whereabouts  of  certain  interesting  land 
marks.  They  were  followed  at  a  little  dis 
tance  by  a  negro,  who  carried  across  his  arm 
a  light  wrap  which  seemed  to  be  a  part  of 
the  outfit  of  the  young  lady. 

As  Farmer  Joe-Bob  Grissom  passed  the 
two,  he  bowed  and  tipped  his  hat  by  way  of 
salutation.  The  old  gentleman  raised  his 
hat  and  bowed  with  great  courtliness,  and 
the  young  lady  nodded  her  head  and  smiled 
pleasantly  at  him.  Farmer  Joe-Bob  was  old 
enough  to  be  grizzly,  but  the  smile  stirred 
him.  It  seemed  to  be  a  direct  challenge  to 
his  memory.  Where  had  he  seen  the  young- 
lady  before?  Where  had  he  met  the  old 
gentleman  ?  He  was  puzzled  to  such  an  ex 
tent  that  he  paid  no  attention  to  the  negro 
man,  who  touched  his  hat  and  bowed  po 
litely  as  the  farmer  passed  —  a  fact  that 
made  the  negro  wonder  a  little ;  for  day  in 
and  out  he  had  known  Mr.  Joe-Bob  Grissom 
nearly  forty  years,  and  never  before  had  that 
worthy  citizen  failed  to  respond  with  a  cor 
dial  "  Howdy  "  when  the  negro  took  off  his 
hat. 


194      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

Farmer  Joe-Bob  Grissom  walked  on  to 
wards  town,  which  was  not  far,  and  the  old 
gentleman  and  the  young  lady  walked  slowly 
along  the  hedge  of  Cherokee  roses  that  ran 
around  the  old  Bascom  Place,  while  the  ne 
gro  followed  at  a  respectful  distance.  Once 
they  paused,  and  the  old  gentleman  rubbed 
his  eyes  with  a  hand  that  trembled  a  little. 

"  Why,  darling !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  tone 
of  mingled  grief  and  astonishment,  "they 
have  cut  it  down." 

"  Cut  what  down,  father  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  weeping- willow.  Don't  you 
remember  it,  daughter?  It  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  field  yonder.  It  was  a  noble 
tree.  Well,  well,  well !  What  next,  I  won 
der?" 

"  I  do  not  remember  it,  father ;  I  have  so 
much  to  "  — 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  old  gentleman  interrupted. 
"  Of  course  you  could  n't  remember.  The 
place  has  been  so  changed  that  I  seem  to 
have  forgotten  it  myself.  It  has  been  turned 
topsy-turvy;  it  has  been  ruined  —  ruined!" 

He  leaned  on  his  cane,  and  with  quivering 
lips  and  moist  eyes  looked  through  the  green 
perspective  of  the  park,  and  over  the  fertile 
fields  and  meadows. 


THE   OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.  195 

"  Ruined  ! r'  exclaimed  the  young  lady. 
"  How  can  you  say  so,  father  ?  I  never  saw 
a  more  beautiful  place.  It  would  make  a 
lovely  picture." 

"And  they  have  ruined  the  house,  too. 
The  whole  roof  has  been  changed."  The 
old  man  pulled  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes, 
his  hand  trembling  more  than  ever.  "Let 
us  turn  back,  Mildred,"  he  said  after  a  while. 
"  The  sight  of  all  this  frets  and  worries  me 
more  than  I  thought  it  would." 

"  They  say,"  said  the  daughter,  "  that  the 
gentleman  who  owns  the  place  has  made  a 
good  deal  of  money." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  father,  "  I  suppose  so 
—  I  suppose  so.  Yes,  so  I  have  heard.  A 
great  many  people  are  making  money  now 
who  never  made  it  before  —  a  great  many." 

"I  wish  they  would  tell  us  the  secret," 
said  the  young  lady,  laughing  a  little. 

"There  is  no  secret  about  it,"  said  the 
old  gentleman  ;  "  none  whatever.  To  make 
money  you  must  be  mean  and  niggardly 
yourself,  and  then  employ  others  to  be  mean 
and  niggardly  for  you." 

"Oh,  it  is  not  always  so,  father,"  the 
young  girl  exclaimed. 

"  It   was   not   always   so,  my   daughter. 


196      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

There  was  a  time  when  one  could  make 
money  and  remain  a  gentleman ;  but  that 
was  many  years  ago." 

The  young  lady  was  apparently  not  anx 
ious  to  continue  the  argument,  for  she  lightly 
turned  the  conversation  into  a  more  agree 
able  channel ;  and  so  the  two,  still  followed 
by  the  negro,  made  their  way  through  the 
shaded  streets  of  the  town. 

That  evening,  when  Mr.  Joe-Bob  Gris- 
som,  after  making  some  little  purchases 
about  town,  went  to  the  hotel,  which  he 
persisted  in  calling  a  tavern,  he  found  Ma 
jor  Jimmy  Bass  engaged  in  a  hot  political 
discussion  with  a  crowd  which  included  a 
number  of  the  townspeople,  as  well  as  a 
sprinkling  of  commercial  travelers.  Major 
Jimmy  was  one  of  the  ancient  and  venera 
ble  landmarks  of  that  region.  He  had  once 
been  an  active  politician,  and  had  been  en 
gaged  in  political  discussion  for  forty  years 
or  more.  Old  and  fat  as  he  was,  he  knew 
how  to  talk,  and  nothing  pleased  him  more 
than  to  get  hold  of  a  stranger  when  a  crowd 
of  sympathetic  fellow-citizens,  young  and  old, 
was  present  to  applaud  the  points  he  made. 

Whenever  Mr.  Joe-Bob  Grissom  ap 
peared  in  the  veranda  of  the  hotel  he  made 


THE   OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.  197 

it  a  point  to  shake  hands  with  every  person 
present,  friend  and  stranger  alike.  His  po 
liteness  was  a  trifle  elaborate,  but  it  was 
genuine. 

"Why,  howdy,  Joe-Bob,  howdy!"  ex 
claimed  Major  Bass  with  effusion.  "You 
seem  to  turn  up  at  the  right  time,  like  the 
spangled  man  in  the  circus.  I  'm  glad 
you  've  come,  an'  ef  I  'd  'a'  had  my  way 
you  'd  'a'  come  sooner,  bekaze  you  're  jest  a 
little  too  late  fer  to  see  me  slap  the  argy- 
ments  onto  some  of  these  here  travelin' 
drummers.  They  are  gone  now,"  the  ma 
jor  continued,  with  a  sweeping  gesture  of 
his  right  arm.  "  They  are  gone,  but  I 
wisht  mightily  you'd  'a'  been  here.  New 
things  is  mortal  nice,  I  know ;  but  when 
these  new-issue  chaps  set  up  to  out-talk  men 
that 's  old  enough  to  be  their  grand-daddy,  it 
does  me  a  sight  of  good  fer  to  see  'em  took 
down  a  peg  er  two." 

As  soon  as  he  could  get  in  a  word  edge 
wise,  farmer  Joe-Bob  Grissom  attempted  to 
turn  the  conversation  in  a  direction  calcu 
lated  to  satisfy  his  curiosity. 

•'  Major,"  he  said  in  his  deliberate  way, 
"  what 's  this  I  see  out  yonder  at  the  old 
Bascom  Place  ?  " 


198     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

"  The  Lord  only  knows,  Joe-Bob.  What 
might  be  the  complexion,  er  yet  the  charac 
ter,  of  it?" 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Grissom,  "  as  I  was 
makin'  to'rds  town  a  little  while  ago,  I  seen 
some  folks  that  don't  look  like  they  b'long 
'roun'  here.  One  of  'em  was  a  old  man,  an' 
t'  other  one  was  a  young  gal,  an'  a  nigger 
man  was  a-follerin'  of  'em  up  —  an',  ef  I 
make  no  mistakes,  the  nigger  man  was  your 
old  Jess.  I  did  n't  look  close  at  the  nigger, 
but  arter  I  'd  passed  him  it  come  to  me  that 
it  wa'  n't  nobody  on  the  topside  of  the  roun' 
worl'  but  Jess." 

"  Why,  bless  your  life  an'  soul !  "  ex 
claimed  Major  Bass,  giving  farmer  Joe-Bob 
a  neighborly  nudge,  "  don't  you  know  who 
them  folks  was?  Well,  well!  Where's 
your  mind?  Why,  that  was  old  Briscoe 
Bascom  an'  his  daughter." 

"  I  say  it !  "  exclaimed  farmer  Joe-Bob, 
hitching  his  chair  closer  to  the  major. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  that 's  who 
it  was.  Why,  where  on  earth  have  you 
been  ?  The  old  Judge  drapped  in  on  the 
town  some  weeks  ago,  an'  he  's  been  here 
ever  sence.  He 's  been  here  long  enough 
for  the  gal  to  make  up  a  school.  Lord, 


THE   OLD  B AS COM  PLACE.  199 

Lord  !  What  a  big  swing  the  world  's  in  ! 
High  on  one  side,  high  on  t'  other,  an'  the 
old  cat  a-dyin,  in  the  middle  !  Why,  bless 
your  heart,  Joe-Bob !  I  've  seed  the  time 
when  ef  old  Judge  Briscoe  Bascom  jest  so 
much  as  bowed  to  me  I  'd  feel  proud  fer  a 
week.  An'  now  look  at  'im  !  Ef  I  knowed 
I  'd  be  took  off  wi'  the  dropsy  the  nex'  min 
ute,  I  would  n't  swap  places  wi'  the  poor 
old  creetur." 

"  But  what  is  old  Jess  a-doin'  doggin'  'long 
arter  'em  that  a-way  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Gris- 
som,  knitting  his  shaggy  eyebrows. 

"  That 's  what  pesters  me,"  exclaimed  the 
major.  "  Ef  niggers  was  ree-sponsible  fer 
what  they  done,  it  would  be  wuss  than  what 
it  is.  Now  you  take  Jesse :  you  need  n't 
tell  me  that  nigger  ain't  got  sense ;  yit  what 
does  he  do?  You  seen  'im  wi'  your  own 
eyes.  Why,  sir,"  continued  the  major, 
growing  more  emphatic,  "I  bought  that 
nigger  from  Judge  Bascom 's  cousin  when  he 
wa'  n't  nothin'  but  a  youngster,  an'  I  took 
him  home  an'  raised  him  up  right  in  the 
house,  —  yes,  sir,  right  in  the  house,  —  an' 
he 's  been  a-hangin'  'roun'  me  off  an'  on, 
gittin'  his  vittles,  his  clozes,  an'  his  lodgin'. 
Yit,  look  at  him  now !  I  wisht  I  may  die 


200     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

dead  ef  that  nigger  did  n't  hitch  onto  old 
Judge  Bascom  the  minute  he  landed  in 
town.  Yes,  sir !  I  'm  a-tellin'  you  no  lie. 
It 's  a  clean,  naked  fact.  That  nigger  quit 
me  an'  went  an'  took  up  wi'  the  old  judge." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Grissom,  stroking  his 
unshorn  face,  "  you  know  what  the  say  in'  is  : 
Niggers  '11  be  niggers  even  ef  you  white 
wash  'em  twice  a  week." 

"  Yes,"  remarked  the  major  thoughtfully  ; 
"  I  hope  to  goodness  they  've  got  souls,  but 
I  misdoubt  it.  Lord,  yes,  I  misdoubt  it 
mightily." 

II. 

As  Major  Jimmy  Bass  used  to  say,  the 
years  cut  many  queer  capers  as  they  go  by. 
The  major  in  his  own  proper  person  had  not 
only  witnessed,  but  had  been  the  victim,  of 
these  queer  capers.  Hillsborough  was  a 
very  small  place  indeed,  and,  for  that  very 
reason  perhaps,  it  was  more  sensitive  to 
changes  in  the  way  of  progress  and  decay 
than  many  larger  and  more  ambitious  towns. 

However  this  may  have  been,  it  is  certain 
that  the  town,  assisted  by  the  major,  had 
noted  the  queer  capers  the  years  had  cut  in 


THE   OLD   BASCOM  PLACE.  201 

the  neighborhood  of  the  old  Bascom  Place. 
This  attitude  on  the  part  of  Hillsborough  — 
including,  of  course,  Major  Jimmy  Bass  — 
may  be  accounted  for  partly  by  the  fact 
that  the  old  place  had  once  been  the  pride 
and  delight  of  the  town,  and  partly  by  the 
fact  that  the  provincial  eye  and  mind  are 
nervously  alert  to  whatever  happens  within 
range  of  their  observation. 

Before  and  during  the  war  the  Bascom 
Place  was  part  and  parcel  of  a  magnificent 
estate.  The  domain  was  so  extensive  and 
so  well  managed  that  it  was  noted  far  and 
wide.  Its  boundary  lines  inclosed  more 
than  four  thousand  acres  of  forests  and  cul 
tivated  fields.  This  immense  body  of  land 
was  known  as  the  old  Bascom  Place. 

Boiling  Bascom,  its  first  owner,  went  to 
Georgia  not  long  after  the  close  of  the  Kevo- 
lution,  with  a  large  number  of  Virginians 
who  proposed  to  establish  a  colony  in  what 
was  then  the  far  South.  The  colony  settled 
in  Wilkes  County ;  but  Boiling  Bascom, 
more  adventurous  than  the  rest,  pushed  on 
into  middle  Georgia,  crossed  the  Oconee, 
and  built  him  a  home,  and  such  was  his 
taste,  his  energy,  and  his  thrift,  that  the  re 
sults  thereof  may  be  seen  and  admired  in 
Hillsborough  to  this  day. 


202  TIIE  OLD  B AS  COM  PLACE. 

But  the  man,  like  so  many  of  his  fellow- 
citizens  then  and  thereafter,  was  land-hun 
gry,  He  bought  and  bought  until  he  had 
aquired  the  immense  domain,  which,  by 
some  special  interposition  of  fate  or  circum 
stance,  is  still  intact.  Meantime  he  had 
built  him  a  house  which  was  in  keeping 
with  the  extent  and  richness  of  his  landed 
possessions.  It  was  planned  in  the  old  co 
lonial  style,  but  its  massive  proportions 
were  relieved  by  the  tall  red  chimneys  and 
the  long  and  gracefully  fashioned  colonnade 
that  gave  both  strength  and  beauty  to  the 
spacious  piazza  which  ran,  and  still  runs,  the 
whole  length  of  the  house. 

When  Boiling  Bascom  died,  in  1830, 
aged  seventy  years,  as  the  faded  inscription 
on  the  storm-beaten  tablet  in  the  church 
yard  shows,  he  left  his  son,  Briscoe  Bascom, 
to  own  and  manage  the  vast  estate.  This 
son  was  thirty  years  old,  and  it  was  said  of 
him  that  he  inherited  the  gentle  qualities  of 
his  mother  rather  than  the  fiery  energy  and 
ambition  of  his  father. 

Boiling  Bascom  was  neither  vicious  nor 
reckless,  but  he  was  a  thorough  man  of  the 
world.  He  was,  in  short,  a  typical  Vir 
ginian  gentleman,  who  for  his  own  purposes 
had  settled  in  Georgia. 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     203 

Whatever  the  cause  of  his  emigration,  it 
is  certain  that  Georgia  gained  a  good  citizen. 
It  was  said  of  him  that  he  was  a  little  too 
fond  of  a  fiddle,  but  with  all  his  faults  - 
with  all  his  love  for  horse-racing  and  fox 
hunting  —  he  found  time  to  be  kind  to  his 
neighbors,  generous  to  his  friends,  and  the 
active  leader  of  every  movement  calculated 
to  benefit  the  State  or  the  people ;  and  it 
may  be  remarked  in  passing,  that  he  also 
found  time  to  look  after  his  own  affairs. 

Naturally,  he  was  prominent  in  politics. 
He  represented  his  county  in  the  legisla 
ture,  was  at  one  time  a  candidate  for  gover 
nor,  and  was  altogether  a  man  who  had  the 
love  and  the  confidence  of  his  neighbors. 
He  gave  his  son  the  benefit  of  the  best  edu 
cation  the  country  afforded,  and  made  the 
tour  of  Europe  with  him,  going  over  the 
ground  that  he  himself  had  gone  over  in  his 
young  days. 

But  his  European  trip,  undertaken  when 
he  was  an  old  man,  was  too  much  for  him. 
He  was  seized  with  an  illness  on  his  return 
voyage,  and,  although  he  lived  long  enough 
to  reach  home,  he  never  recovered.  In  a 
few  years  his  wife  died ;  and  his  son,  with 
little  or  no  experience  in  such  matters,  — 


204  THE  OLD  J3ASCOM  PLACE. 

since  his  time  had  been  taken  up  by  the 
schools  and  colleges,  —  was  left  to  manage 
the  estate  as  best  he  could. 

It  was  the  desire  of  Boiling  Bascom  that 
his  son  should  study  law  and  make  that  pro 
fession  a  stepping-stone  to  a  political  career. 
He  had  been  ambitious  himself,  and  he 
hoped  his  son  would  also  be  ambitious.  Be 
sides,  was  not  politics  the  most  respectable 
of  all  the  professions  ?  This  was  certainly 
the  view  in  Boiling  Bascom's  day  and  time, 
and  much  might  be  said  to  support  it.  Of 
all  the  professions,  politics  opened  up  the 
one  career  best  calculated  to  tickle  the  fancy 
of  the  rich  young  men. 

To  govern,  to  control,  to  make  laws,  to 
look  after  the  welfare  of  the  people,  to  make 
great  speeches,  to  become  statesmen  —  these 
were  the  ideas  that  filled  the  minds  of  am 
bitious  men  in  Boiling  Bascom's  time,  and 
for  years  thereafter.  And  why  not  ?  There 
were  the  examples  of  Jefferson,  Madison, 
Monroe,  Randolph,  Hamilton,  Webster,  Cal- 
houn,  and  the  Adamses  of  Massachusetts. 
What  better  could  a  young  man  do  than  to 
follow  in  the  footsteps  of  these  illustrious 
citizens  ? 

It  may  be  supposed,  therefore,  that  Boll- 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     205 

ing  Bascom  had  mapped  out  a  tremendous 
career  for  his  son  and  heir.  No  doubt,  as 
he  sat  dozing  on  his  piazza  in  the  long  sum 
mer  afternoons  near  the  close  of  his  life,  he 
fancied  he  could  hear  the  voice  of  his  boy 
in  the  halls  of  legislation,  or  hear  the  wild 
shouts  of  the  multitudes  that  greeted  his  ef 
forts  on  the  stump  in  the  heat  and  fury  of 
a  campaign.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  The 
stormy  politics  of  that  period  had  no  charms 
for  Briscoe  Bascom.  He  was  a  student,  and 
he  preferred  his  book  to  the  companionship 
of  the  crowd. 

He  possessed  both  courage  and  sociability 
in  the  highest  degree,  but  he  was  naturally 
indolent,  and  he  was  proud  —  too  indolent 
to  find  pleasure  in  the  whirling  confusion  of 
active  politics,  and  too  proud  to  go  about  his 
county  or  his  State  in  the  attitude  of  solicit 
ing  the  suffrages  of  his  fellow-citizens.  That 
he  would  have  made  his  mark  in  politics  is 
certain,  for  he  made  it  at  the  bar,  where 
success  is  much  more  dearly  bought.  He 
finally  became  judge  of  the  superior  court, 
at  a  time  when  the  judges  of  the  circuit 
courts  met  annually  and  formed  a  court  of 
appeals.  His  decisions  in  this  appellate 
court  attracted  attention  all  over  the  coun- 


206  THE  OLD  B AS  COM  PLACE. 

try,  and  are  still  referred  to  in  the  legal  lit 
erature  of  to-day  as  models  of  their  kind. 

And  yet  all  that  Briscoe  Bascom  accom 
plished  at  the  bar  and  on  the  bench  was  the 
result  of  intuition  rather  than  of  industry. 
Indolence  sat  enthroned  in  his  nature,  pa 
tient  but  vigilant.  When  he  retired  from 
the  bench,  he  gave  up  the  law  altogether. 
He  might  have  reclaimed  his  large  practice, 
but  he  preferred  the  ease  and  quiet  of  his 
home. 

He  was  an  old  man  before  he  married  — 
old  enough,  that  is  to  say,  to  marry  a  woman 
many  years  his  junior.  His  wife  had  been 
reared  in  an  atmosphere  of  extravagance ; 
and  although  she  was  a  young  woman  of 
gentle  breeding  and  of  the  best  intentions,  it 
is  certain  that  she  did  not  go  to  the  Bascom 
Place  as  its  mistress  for  the  purpose  of  stint 
ing  or  economizing.  She  simply  gave  no 
thought  to  the  future.  But  she  was  so 
bright  and  beautiful,  so  gentle  and  unaf 
fected  in  speech  and  manner,  so  gracious 
and  so  winsome  in  all  directions,  that  it 
seemed  nothing  more  than  natural  and  right 
that  her  every  whim  and  wish  should  be 
gratified. 

Judge  Bascom  was  indulgent  and  more 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     207 

than  indulgent.  He  applauded  his  wife's 
extravagance  and  followed  her  example. 
Before  many  years  he  began  to  reap  some  of 
the  fruits  thereof,  and  they  were  exceeding- 
bitter  to  the  taste.  The  longest  purse  that 
ever  was  made  has  a  bottom  to  it,  unless,  in 
deed,  it  be  lined  with  Franklin's  maxims. 

The  Judge  was  forty-eight  years  old  when 
he  married,  and  even  before  the  beginning 
of  the  war  he  found  his  financial  affairs  in 
an  uncomfortable  condition.  The  Bascom 
Place  was  intact,  but  the  pocket-book  of  its 
master  was  in  a  state  bordering  on  collapse. 

The  slow  but  sure  approach  to  the  inevita 
ble  need  not  be  described  here.  It  is  fa 
miliar  to  all  people  in  all  lands  and  times. 
In  the  case  of  Judge  Bascom,  however,  the 
war  was  in  the  nature  of  a  breathing-spell. 
It  brought  with  it  an  era  of  extravagance 
that  overshadowed  everything  that  had  been 
dreamed  of  theretofore.  During  the  first 
two  years  there  was  money  enough  for  every 
body  and  to  spare.  It  was  manufactured  in 
Eichmond  in  great  stacks.  General  Robert 
Toombs,  who  was  an  interested  observer,  has 
aptly  described  the  facility  with  which  the 
Confederacy  supplied  itself  with  money. 
"  A  dozen  negroes,"  said  he,  "  printed 


208     TUB  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

money  on  the  hand-presses  all  day  to  supply 
the  government,  and  then  they  worked  until 
nine  o'clock  at  night  printing  money  enough 
to  pay  themselves  off." 

Under  these  circumstances,  Judge  Bascom 
and  his  charming  wife  could  be  as  extrava 
gant  or  as  economical  as  they  pleased  with 
out  attracting  the  attention  of  their  neigh 
bors  or  their  creditors.  Nobody  had  time 
to  think  or  care  about  such  small  matters. 
The  war-fever  was  at  its  height,  and  nothing 
else  occupied  the  attention  of  the  people. 
The  situation  was  so  favorable,  indeed,  that 
Judge  Bascom  began  to  redeem  his  fortune 
—  in  Confederate  money.  He  had  land 
enough  and  negroes  a  plenty,  and  so  he 
saved  his  money  by  storing  it  away  ;  and  he 
was  so  successful  in  this  business  that  it  is 
said  that  when  the  war  closed  he  had  a 
wagon-load  of  Confederate  notes  and  shin- 
plaster  packed  in  trunks  and  chests. 

The  crash  came  when  General  Sherman 
went  marching  through  Hillsborough.  The 
Bascom  Place,  being  the  largest  and  the 
richest  plantation  in  that  neighborhood,  suf 
fered  the  worst.  Every  horse,  every  mule, 
every  living  thing  with  hide  and  hoof,  was 
driven  off  by  the  Federals ;  and  a  majority 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.      209 

of  the  negroes  went  along  with  the  army. 
It  was  often  said  of  Judge  Bascom  that  "  he 
had  so  many  negroes  he  did  n't  know  them 
when  he  met  them  in  the  big  road ; "  and 
this  was  probably  true.  His  negroes  knew 
him,  and  knew  that  he  was  a  kind  master  in 
many  respects,  but  they  had  no  personal 
affection  for  him.  They  were  such  strangers 
to  the  Judge  that  they  never  felt  justified  in 
complaining  to  him  even  when  the  overseers 
ill-treated  them.  Consequently,  when  Sher 
man  went  marching  along,  the  great  major 
ity  of  them  bundled  up  their  little  effects 
and  followed  after  the  army.  They  had 
nothing  to  bind  them  to  the  old  place.  The 
house-servants,  and  a  few  negroes  in  whom 
the  Judge  took  a  personal  interest,  remained, 
but  all  the  rest  went  away. 

Then,  in  a  few  months,  came  the  news  of 
the  surrender,  bringing  with  it  a  species  of 
paralysis  or  stupefaction  from  which  the 
people  were  long  in  recovering  —  so  long, 
indeed,  that  some  of  them  died  in  despair, 
while  others  lingered  on  the  stage,  watching, 
with  dim  eyes  and  trembling  limbs,  half- 
hopefully  and  half-fretfully,  the  representa 
tives  of  a  new  generation  trying  to  build  up 
the  waste  places.  There  was  nothing  left 


210      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

for  Judge  Bascom  to  do  but  to  take  his 
place  among  the  spectators.  He  would  have 
returned  to  his  law-practice,  but  the  people 
had  well-nigh  forgotten  that  he  had  ever 
been  a  lawyer;  moreover,  the  sheriffs  were 
busier  in  those  days  than  the  lawyers.  He 
had  the  incentive,  —  for  the  poverty  of 
those  days  was  pinching,  —  but  he  lacked  the 
energy  and  the  strength  necessary  to  begin 
life  anew.  He  and  hundreds  like  him  were 
practically  helpless.  Ordinarily  experience 
is  easily  learned  when  necessity  is  the 
teacher,  but  it  was  too  late  for  necessity  to 
teach  Judge  Bascom  anything.  During  all 
his  life  he  had  never  known  what  want  was. 
He  had  never  had  occasion  to  acquire  tact, 
business  judgment,  or  economy.  Inheriting 
a  vast  estate,  he  had  no  need  to  practice 
thrift  or  become  familiar  with  the  shifty 
methods  whereby  business  men  fight  their 
way  through  the  world.  Of  all  such  mat 
ters  he  was  entirely  ignorant. 

To  add  to  his  anxiety,  a  girl  had  been 
born  to  him  late  in  life,  his  first  and  only 
child.  In  his  confusion  and  perplexity  he 
was  prepared  to  regard  the  little  stranger  as 
merely  a  new  and  dreadful  responsibility, 
but  it  was  not  long  before  his  daughter  was 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.      211 

a  source  of  great  comfort  to  him.  Yet,  as 
the  negroes  said,  she  was  not  a  "  luck- 
child ;"  and  bad  as  the  Judge's  financial 
condition  was,  it  grew  steadily  worse. 

Briefly,  the  world  had  drifted  past  him  and 
his  contemporaries  and  left  them  stranded. 
Under  the  circumstances,  what  was  he  to 
do  ?  It  is  true  he  had  a  magnificent  planta 
tion,  but  this  merely  added  to  his  poverty. 
Neoro  labor  was  demoralized,  and  the  over- 

O 

seer  class  had  practically  disappeared.  He 
would  have  sold  a  part  of  his  landed  estate ; 
indeed,  so  pressing  were  his  needs  that  he 
would  have  sold  everything  except  the  house 
which  his  father  had  built,  and  where  he 
himself  was  born,  —  that  he  would  not  have 
parted  with  for  all  the  riches  in  the  world, 
—  but  there  was  nobody  to  buy.  The 
Judge's  neighbors  and  his  friends,  with  the 
exception  of  those  who  had  accustomed 
themselves  to  seizing  all  contingencies  by 
the  throat  and  wresting  tribute  from  them, 
were  in  as  severe  a  strait  as  he  was  ;  and  to 
make  matters  worse,  the  political  affairs  of 
the  State  were  in  the  most  appalling  condi 
tion.  It  was  the  period  of  reconstruction  — 
a  scheme  that  paralyzed  all  whom  it  failed 
to  corrupt. 


212  THE  OLD  B AS COM  PLACE. 

Finally  the  Judge's  wife  took  matters  into 
her  own  hand.  She  had  relatives  in  At 
lanta,  and  she  prevailed  on  him  to  go  to 
that  lively  and  picturesque  town.  He  closed 
his  house,  being  unable  to  rent  it,  and  be 
came  a  citizen  of  the  thrifty  city.  He  found 
himself  in  a  new  atmosphere.  The  north 
Georgia  crackers,  the  east  Tennesseeans,  — 
having  dropped  their  "  you-uns  "  and  "  we- 
uns,"  —  and  the  Yankees  had  joined  hands 
in  building  up  and  pushing  Atlanta  forward. 
Business  was  more  important  than  politics ; 
and  the  rush  and  whirl  of  men  and  things 
were  enough  to  make  a  mere  spectator  dizzy. 
Judge  Bascom  found  himself  more  helpless 
than  ever  ;  but  through  the  influence  of  his 
wife's  brother  he  was  appointed  to  a  small 
clerkship  in  one  of  the  State  departments, 
and  —  "  Humiliation  of  humiliations  !  "  his 
friends  exclaimed  —  he  promptly  accepted 
it,  and  became  a  part  of  what  was  known  as 
the  "  carpet-bag  "  government.  The  ap 
pointment  was  in  the  nature  of  a  godsend, 
but  the  Judge  found  himself  ostracized. 
His  friends  and  acquaintances  refused  to  re 
turn  his  salutation  as  he  met  them  on  the 
street.  To  a  proud  and  sensitive  man  this 
was  the  bitterness  of  death,  but  Judge  Bas- 


THE   OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.  213 

com  stuck  to  his  desk  and  made  no  com 
plaint.  • 

By  some  means  or  other,  no  doubt  through 
the  influence  of  Mrs.  Bascom,  the  Judge's 
brother-in-law,  a  thrifty  and  not  over-scrupu 
lous  man,  obtained  a  power  of  attorney,  and 
sold  the  Bascom  Place,  house  and  all,  to  a 
gentleman  from  western  New  York  who  was 
anxious  to  settle  in  middle  Georgia.  Just 
how  much  of  the  purchase-money  went  into 
the  Judge's  hands  it  is  impossible  to  say, 
but  it  is  known  that  he  fell  into  a  terrible 
rage  when  he  was  told  that  the  house  had 
been  sold  along  with  the  place.  He  de 
nounce  the  sale  as  a  swindle,  and  declared 
that  as  he  had  been  born  in  the  house  he 
would  die  there,  and  not  all  the  powers  of 
earth  could  prevent  him. 

But  the  money  that  he  received  was  a 
substantial  thing  as  far  as  it  went.  Gradu 
ally  he  found  himself  surrounded  by  various 
comforts  that  he  had  sadly  missed,  and  in 
time  he  became  somewhat  reconciled  to  the 
sale,  though  he  never  gave  up  the  idea  that 
he  would  buy  the  old  place  back  and  live 
there  again.  The  idea  haunted  him  day 
and  night. 

After  the  downfall  of  the  carpet-bag  ad- 


214      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

ministration  a  better  feeling  took  possession 
•of  the  people  and  politicians,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  Judge  Bascom  found  congenial 
work  in  codifying  the  laws  of  the  State, 
which  had  been  in  a  somewhat  confused  and 
tangled  condition  since  the  war.  Mean 
while  his  daughter  Mildred  was  growing  up, 
developing  remarkable  beauty  as  well  as 
strength  of  mind.  At  a  very  early  age  she 
began  to  "  take  the  responsibility,"  as  the 
Judge  put  it,  of  managing  the  household 
affairs,  and  she  continued  to  manage  them 
even  while  going  to  school.  At  school  she 
won  the  hearts  of  teachers  and  pupils,  not 
less  by  her  aptitude  in  her  books  than  by 
her  beauty  and  engaging  manners. 

But  in  spite  of  the  young  girl's  manage 
ment  —  in  spite  of  the  example  she  set  by 
her  economy  —  the  Judge  and  his  wife  con 
tinued  to  grow  poorer  and  poorer.  Neither 
of  them  knew  the  value  of  a  dollar,  and 
the  money  that  had  been  received  from  the 
sale  of  the  Bascom  Place  was  finally  ex 
hausted.  About  this  time  Mrs.  Bascom 
died,  and  the  Judge  was  so  prostrated  by 
his  bereavement  that  it  was  months  before 
he  recovered.  When  he  did  recover  he  had 
lost  all  interest  in  his  work  of  codification, 


THE  OLD  B  AS  COM  PLACE.  215 

but  it  was  so  nearly  completed  and  was  so 
admirably  done  that  the  legislature  voted 
him  extra  pay.  This  modest  sum  the 
daughter  took  charge  of,  and  when  her 
father  was  well  enough  she  proposed  that 
they  return  to  Hillsborough,  where  they 
could  take  a  small  house,  and  where  she 
could  give  music  lessons  and  teach  a  primary 
school.  It  need  not  be  said  that  the  Judge 
gave  an  eager  assent  to  the  proposition. 


III. 


As  Mr.  Joe-Bob  Grissom  passed  the  Bas- 
com  Place  on  his  way  home,  after  gathering 
from  Major  Jimmy  Bass  all  the  news  and 
gossip  of  the  town,  he  heard  Mr.  Francis 
Underwood,  the  owner  of  the  Place,  walking 
up  and  down  the  piazza,  singing.  Mr.  Un 
derwood  appeard  to  be  in  a  cheerful  mood, 
and  he  had  a  right  to  be.  He  was  young, 
—  not  more  than  thirty,  —  full  of  life,  and 
the  world  was  going  on  very  well  with  him. 
Mr.  Grissom  paused  a  moment  and  listened  ; 
then  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  in  and  have 
a  chat  with  the  young  man.  He  opened 
the  gate  and  went  up  the  avenue  under  the 
cedars  and  Lombardy  poplars.  A  little 


216      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

distance  from  the  house  he  was  stopped  by 
a  large  mastiff.  The  great  dog  made  no  at 
tempt  to  attack  him,  but  majestically  barred 
the  way. 

"  Squire,"  yelled  Joe-Bob,  "  ef  you  '11  call 
off  your  dog,  I  '11  turn  right  'roun'  an'  go 
home  an'  never  bother  you  no  more." 

"  Is  that  you,  Joe-Bob  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Underwood.  "  Well,  come  right  on.  The 
dog  won't  trouble  you." 

The  dog  thereupon  turned  around  and 
went  up  the  avenue  to  the  house  and  into 
the  porch,  where  he  stretched  himself  out  at 
full  length,  Joe-Bob  following  along  at  a 
discreet  distance. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Underwood  heartily ; 
"  I  'm  glad  to  see  you.  Take  this  large 
rocking-chair  ;  you  will  find  it  more  comfor 
table  than  the  smaller  one." 

Mr.  Grissom  sat  down  and  looked  cau 
tiously  around  to  see  where  the  dog  was. 

"  I  did  come,  Squire,"  he  said,  "  to  see 
you  on  some  kinder  business,  but  that  drat 
ted  dog  has  done  skeered  it  clean  out  'n  me." 

"  Prince  is  a  faithful  watcher,"  said  Un 
derwood,  "  but  he  never  troubles  any  one 
who  is  coming  straight  to  the  house.  Do 
you,  old  fellow?"  The  dog  rapped  an  an 
swer  on  the  floor  with  his  tail. 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     217 

"  Well,"  said  Joe-Bob,  "  I  'd  as  lief  be 
tore  up  into  giblets,  mighty  nigh,  as  to  have 
my  sev'm  senses  skeered  out'n  me.  What 
I  'm  afeared  of  now,"  he  went  on,  "  is  that 
that  dog  will  jump  over  the  fence  some  day 
an'  ketch  old  Judge  Bascome  whilst  he's 
a-pirootin'  'roun'  here  a-lookin'  at  the  old 
Place.  An'  ef  he  don't  ketch  the  Judge, 
it 's  more  'n  likely  he  '11  ketch  the  Judge's 
gal.  I  seen  both  of  'em  this  very  evenin' 
whilst  I  was  a-goin'  down  town." 

"Was  that  the  Judge?"  exclaimed 
young  Mr.  Underwood,  with  some  show  of 
interest ;  "  and  was  the  lady  his  daughter  ? 
I  heard  they  had  returned." 

"  That  was  jest  percisely  who  it  was," 
said  Joe-Bob  with  emphasis.  "  It  wa'  n't  no 
body  else  under  the  shinin'  sun." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Underwood,  "  I  have 
seen  them  walking  by  several  times.  It  is 
natural  they  should  be  interested  in  the 
Place.  The  old  gentleman  was  born  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Joe-Bob,  "  an'  the  gal  too. 
They  tell  me,"  he  went  on,  "  that  the  old 
Judge  an'  his  gal  have  seed  a  many  ups  an' 
downs.  I  reckon  they  er  boun'  fer  to  feel 
lonesome  when  they  come  by  an'  look  at  the 
prop'ty  that  use'  to  be  theirn.  I  hear  tell 


218      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

that  the  old  Judge  is  gwine  to  try  an'  see  ef 
he  can't  git  it  back." 

Francis  Underwood  said  nothing,  but  sat 
gazing  out  into  the  moonlight  as  if  in  deep 
thought. 

"I  thinks,  says  I,"  continued  Joe-Bob, 
"that  the  <?ld  Judge  '11  have  to  be  lots 
pearter  'n  he  looks  to  be  ef  he  gits  ahead  of 
Squire  Underwood." 

The  "  Squire  "  continued  to  gaze  reflec 
tively  down  the  dim  perspective  of  cedars 
and  Lombardy  poplars.  Finally  he  said : — 

"  Have  a  cigar,  old  man.  These  are 
good  ones." 

Joe-Bob  took  the  cigar  and  lighted  it, 
handling  it  very  gingerly. 

"  I  ain't  a  deny  in'  but  what  they  are  good, 
Squire,  but  somehow  er  nuther  me  an'  these 
here  fine  seegyars  don't  gee,"  said  Joe-Bob, 
as  he  puffed  away.  "  They  're  purty  toler'- 
ble  nice,  but  jest  about  the  time  I  git  in  the 
notion  of  smokin'  they  're  done  burnted  up, 
an'  then  ef  you  ain't  got  sev'm  or  eight 
more,  it  makes  you  feel  mighty  lonesome. 
Now  I  '11  smoke  this  'n',  an'  it  '11  sorter  put 
my  teeth  on  edge  fer  my  pipe,  an'  when  I 
git  home  I  '11  set  up  an'  have  a  right  nice 
time." 


THE   OLD  B AS  COM  PLACE.  219 

"And  so  you  think,"  said  Underwood, 
speaking  as  if  lie  had  not  heard  Joe-Bob  &  re 
marks  about  the  cigar  —  "  and  so  you  think 
Judge  Bascom  has  come  to  buy  the  old 
Place." 

"  No,  no ! "  said  Joe-Bob,  with  a  quick 
deprecatory  gesture.  "  Oh,  no,  Squire !  not 
by  no  means  !  No,  no !  I  never  said  them 
words.  What  I  did  say  was  that  it 's  been 
talked  up  an'  down  that  the  old  Judge  is 
a-gwine  to  try  to  git  his  prop'ty  back.  That 's 
what  old  Major  Jimmy  Bass  said  he  heard, 
an'  I  thinks,  says  I,  he  '11  have  to  be  mon- 
st'us  peart  ef  he  gits  ahead  of  Squire  Un 
derwood.  That 's  what  I  said  to  myself,  an' 
then  I  ast  old  Major  Jimmy,  says  I,  what 
the  Judge  would  do  wi'  the  prop'ty  arter  he 
got  it,  an'  Major  Jimmy,  he  ups  an'  says, 
says  he,  that  the  old  Judge  would  sell  it 
back  to  Frank  Underwood,  says  he." 

The  young  man  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  heartily,  not  less  at  the  comical 
earnestness  of  Joe-Bob  Grissom  than  at  the 
gossip  of  Major  Jimmy  Bass. 

"It  seems,  then,  that  we  are  going  to 
have  lively  times  around  here,"  said  Under 
wood,  by  way  of  comment. 

"  Yes,  siree,"  exclaimed  Joe-Bob  ;  "  that 's 


220  THE   OLD  £  AS  COM  PLACti. 

what  Major  Jimmy  Bass  allowed.  Do  you 
reckon,  Squire,"  he  continued,  lowering  his 
voice  as  though  the  matter  was  one  to  be 
approached  cautiously,  "  do  you  reckon, 
Squire,  they  could  slip  in  on  you  an'  trip 
you  up  wi'  one  of  'em  writs  of  arousement 
or  one  of  'em  bills  of  injectment  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  they  catch  me  asleep,"  re 
plied  Underwood,  still  laughing.  "  We  get 
up  very  early  in  the  morning  on  this  Place." 

"  Well,"  said  Joe-Bob  Grissom,  "  I  ain't 
much  of  a  lawyer  myself,  an'  so  I  thought 
I  'd  jest  drap  in  an'  tell  you  the  kind  of 
talk  what  they  've  been  a-rumorin'  'roun'. 
But  I  '11  tell  you  what  you  kin  do,  Squire. 
Ef  the  wust  comes  to  the  wust,  you  kin  make 
the  old  Judge  an'  the  gal  take  you  along 
wi'  the  Place.  Now  them  would  be  my  poli 
tics." 

With  that  Joe-Bob  gave  young  Under 
wood  a  nudge  in  the  short  ribs,  and  chuckled 
to  such  an  extent  that  he  nearly  strangled 
himself  with  cigar  smoke. 

"  I  think  I  would  have  the  best  of  the 
bargain,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Now  you  would  !  you  reely  would  !  "  ex 
claimed  Joe-Bob  in  all  seriousness.  "I 
can't  tell  you  the  time  when  I  ever  seed  a 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     221 

likelier  gal  than  that  one  wi'  the  Judge  this 
evenin'.  As  we  say  down  here  in  Georgia, 
she  's  the  top  of  the  pot  an'  the  pot  a-b'ilin'. 
I  tell  you  that  right  pine-blank." 

After  a  little,  Mr.  Grissom  rose  to  go. 
When  Mr.  Underwood  urged  him  to  sit 
longer,  he  pointed  to  the  sword  and  belt  of 
Orion  hanging  low  in  the  southwest. 

"  The  ell  an'  yard  are  a-makin'  the'r  dis 
appearance,"  he  said;  "an'  ef  I  stay  out 
much  longer,  my  old  'oman  '11  think  I  've 
been  a-settin'  up  by  a  jug  somewheres.  Now 
ef  you  '11  jest  hold  your  dog,  Squire,  I  '11  go 
out  as  peaceful  as  a  lamb." 

"  Why,  I  was  just  going  to  propose  to 
send  him  down  to  the  big  gate  with  you," 
said  young  Underwood.  "  He  '11  see  you 
safely  out." 

"  No,  no,  Squire  !  "  exclaimed  Joe-Bob, 
holding  up  both  hands.  "Now  don't  do 
the  like  of  that.  I  don't  like  too  much  per- 
liteness  in  folks,  an'  I  know  right  well  I 
could  n't  abide  it  in  a  dog.  No,  Squire ; 
jest  hold  on  to  the  creetur'  wi'  both  hands, 
an'  I  '11  find  my  way  out.  Jest  ketch  him 
by  the  forefoot.  I  've  heard  tell  before  now 
that  ef  you  '11  hold  a  dog  by  his  forefoot  he 
can't  git  loose,  an'  nuther  kin  he  bite  you." 


222     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

Long  after  Mr.  Joe-Bob  Grissom  had 
gone  home  young  Francis  Underwood  sat 
in  his  piazza  smoking  and  thinking.  He 
had  a  good  deal  to  think  about,  too,  for  he 
was  perhaps  the  busiest  and  the  thriftiest 
person  that  Hillsborough  had  ever  seen. 
He  had  a  dairy  farm  stocked  with  the 
choicest  strains  of  Jersey  cattle,  and  he 
shipped  hundreds  of  pounds  of  golden  but 
ter  all  over  the  country  every  week  in  the 
year ;  he  bred  Percheron  horses  for  farm- 
work  and  trotting-horses  for  the  road;  he 
had  a  flourishing  farm  on  which  he  raised, 
in  addition  to  his  own  supplies,  a  hundred 
or  more  bales  of  cotton  every  year ;  he  had 
a  steam  saw-mill  and  cotton-gin  ;  he  was  a 
contractor  and  builder  ;  and  he  was  also  an 
active  partner  in  the  largest  store  in  Hills- 
borough.  Moreover  he  took  a  lively  interest 
in  the  affairs  of  the  town.  His  energy  and 
his  progressive  ideas  seemed  to  be  conta 
gious,  for  in  a  few  years  the  sleepy  old  town 
had  made  tremendous  strides,  and  every 
thing  appeared  to  move  forward  with  an 
air  of  business  —  such  is  the  force  of  a  gen 
ial  and  robust  example. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  young  Underwood 
was  somewhat  coolly  received  when  he  first 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.      223 

made  his  appearance  in  Hillsborough.  He 
was  a  New  Yorker  and  therefore  a  Yankee  : 
and  some  of  the  older  people,  who  were  still 
grieving  over  the  dire  results  of  the  war,  as 
old  people  have  a  right  to  do,  made  no  con 
cealment  of  their  prejudices.  Their  grief 
was  too  bitter  to  be  lightly  disposed  of. 
Perhaps  the  young  man  appreciated  this 
fact,  for  his  sympathies  were  wonderfully 
quick  and  true.  At  any  rate,  he  carried 
himself  as  buoyantly  and  as  genially  in  the 
face  of  prejudice  as  he  did  afterwards  in  the 
face  of  friendship. 

The  truth  is,  prejudice  could  not  stand 
before  him.  He  had  that  magnetic  person 
ality  which  is  a  more  precious  possession 
than  fame  or  fortune.  There  was  some 
thing  attractive  even  in  his  restless  energy  ; 
he  had  that  heartiness  of  manner  and  gra- 
ciousness  of  disposition  that  are  so  rare 
among  men  ;  and,  withal,  a  spirit  of  inde 
pendence  that  charmed  the  sturdy-minded 
people  with  whom  he  cast  his  lot.  It  was 
not  long  before  the  younger  generation  began 
to  seek  Mr.  Underwood  out,  and  after  this 
the  social  ice,  so  to  speak,  thawed  quickly. 

In  short,  young  Underwood,  by  reason  of 
a  strong  and  an  attractive  individuality,  be- 


224  THE   OLD  B  AS  COM  PLACE. 

came  a  very  prominent  citizen  of  Hillsbor- 
otigh.  He  found  time,  in  the  midst  of  his 
own  business  enterprises,  to  look  after  the 
interests  of  the  town  and  the  county.  One 
of  his  first  movements  was  to  organize  an 
agricultural  society  which  held  its  meeting 
four  times  a  year  in  different  parts  of  the 
county.  It  was  purely  a  local  and  native 
suggestion,  however,  that  made  it  incumbent 
on  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  where  the 
Society  met  to  grace  the  occasion  with  a  feast 
in  the  shape  of  a  barbecue.  The  first  result 
of  the  agricultural  society  —  which  still  ex 
ists,  and  which  has  had  a  wonderful  influ 
ence  on  the  farmers  of  middle  Georgia  — 
was  a  county  fair,  of  which  Mr.  Underwood 
was  the  leading  spirit.  It  may  be  said,  in 
deed,  that  his  energy  and  his  money  made 
the  fair  possible.  And  it  was  a  success. 
Young  Underwood  had  not  only  canvassed 
the  county,  but  he  had  "worked  it  up  in 
the  newspapers,"  as  the  phrase  goes,  and 
it  tickled  the  older  citizens  immensely  to 
see  the  dailies  in  the  big  cities  of  Atlanta, 
Macon,  and  Savannah  going  into  rhetorical 
raptures  over  their  fair. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Francis  Underwood, 
charged  with  the  fiery  energy  of  a  modern 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.      225 

American,  found  it  a  much  easier  matter  to 
establish  himself  in  the  good  graces  of  the 
people  of  Hillsborough  and  the  surrounding 
country  than  did  Judge  Bascom  when  he  re 
turned  to  his  old  home  with  his  lovely  daugh 
ter.  Politically  speaking,  he  had  committed 
the  unpardonable  sin  when  he  accepted  of 
fice  under  what  was  known  as  the  carpet 
bag  government.  It  was  an  easy  matter  — 
thus  the  argument  ran  —  to  forgive  and  re 
spect  an  enemy,  but  it  was  hardly  possible 
to  forgive  a  man  who  had  proved  false  to 
his  people  and  all  their  traditions  —  who 
had,  in  fact,  "  sold  his  birthright  for  a  mess 
of  pottage,"  to  quote  the  luminous  language 
employed  by  Colonel  Bolivar  Blasingame  in 
discussing  the  return  of  Judge  Bascom.  It 
is  due  to  Colonel  Blasingame  to  say  that  he 
did  not  allude  to  the  sale  of  the  Bascom 
Place,  but  to  the  fact  that  Judge  Bascom 
had  drawn  a  salary  from  the  State  treasury 
while  the  Republicans  were  in  power  in 
Georgia. 

This  was  pretty  much  the  temper  of  the 
older  people  of  Hillsborough  even  in  1876. 
They  had  no  bitter  prejudices  against  the 
old  Judge ;  they  were  even  tolerant  and 
kindly ;  but  they  made  it  plain  to  him  that 


226         THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

he  was  regarded  in  a  new  light,  and  from  a 
new  standpoint.  He  was  made  to  feel  that 
his  old  place  among  them  must  remain  va 
cant  ;  that  the  old  intimacies  were  not  to 
be  renewed.  But  this  was  the  price  that 
Judge  Bascom  was  willing  to  pay  for  the 
privilege  of  spending  his  last  days  within 
sight  of  the  old  homestead.  He  made  no 
complaints,  nor  did  he  signify  by  word  or 
sign,  even  to  his  daughter,  that  everything 
was  not  as  it  used  to  be. 

As  for  the  daughter,  she  was  in  blissful 
ignorance  of  the  situation.  She  was  a 
stranger  among  strangers,  and  so  was  not 
affected  by  the  lack  of  sociability  on  the  part 
of  the  townspeople  —  if,  indeed,  there  was 
any  lack  so  .far  as  she  was  concerned.  The 
privations  she  endured  in  common  with  her 
father  were  not  only  sufficient  to  correct  all 
notions  of  vanity  or  self-conceit,  but  they 
had  given  her  a  large  experience  of  life  ; 
they  had  broadened  her  views  and  enlarged 
her  sympathies,  so  that  with  no  sacrifice  of 
the  qualities  of  womanly  modesty  and  gen 
tleness  she  had  grown  to  be  self-reliant. 
She  attracted  all  who  came  within  range  of 
her  sweet  influence,  and  it  was  not  long  be 
fore  she  had  broken  down  all  the  barriers 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.      227 

that  prejudice  against  her  father  might  have 
placed  in  her  way.  She  established  a  pri 
mary  school,  and  what  with  her  duties  there 
and  with  her  music-class  she  soon  had  as 
much  as  she  could  do,  and  her  income  from 
these  sources  was  sufficient  to  support  her 
self  and  her  father  in  a  modest  way ;  but  it 
was  not  sufficient  to  carry  out  her  father's 
plans,  and  this  fact  distressed  her  no  little. 

Sometimes  Judge  Bascom,  sitting  in  the 
narrow  veranda  of  the  little  house  they  oc 
cupied,  would  suddenly  arouse  himself,  as  if 
from  a  doze,  and  exclaim  :  — 

"  We  must  save  money,  daughter ;  we 
must  save  money  and  buy  the  old  Place 
back.  It  is  ours.  We  must  have  it ;  we 
must  save  money."  And  sometimes,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  he  would  go  to  his 
daughter's  bedside,  stroke  her  hair,  and  say 
in  a  whisper :  — 

"  We  are  not  saving  enough  money,  daugh 
ter  ;  we  must  save  more.  We  must  buy 
the  old  Place  back.  We  must  save  it  from 
ruin." 

IV. 

There  was  one  individual  in  Hillsbor- 
pugh  who  did  not  give  the  cold  shoulder  to 


228     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

Judge  Bascom  on  his  return,  and  that  was 
the  negro  Jesse,  who  had  been  bought  by 
Major  Jimmy  Bass  some  years  before  the 
war  from  Merriwether  Bascom,  a  cousin  of 
the  Judge.  Jesse  made  no  outward  demon 
stration  of  welcome  ;  he  was  more  practical 
than  that.  He  merely  went  to  his  old  mas 
ter  with  whom  he  had  been  living  since  he 
became  free,  and  told  him  that  he  was  going 
to  find  employment  elsewhere. 

"  Why,  what  in  the  nation  !  "  exclaimed 
Major  Bass.  "  Why,  what 's  the  matter, 
Jess?" 

The  very  idea  was  preposterous.  In  the 
Bass  household  the  negro  was  almost  indis 
pensable.  He  was  in  the  nature  of  a  piece 
of  furniture  that  holds  its  own  against  all 
fashions  and  fills  a  place  that  nothing  else 
can  fill. 

"  Dey  ain't  nothin'  't  all  de  matter,  Marse 
Maje.  I  des  took  it  in  my  min',  like,  dat  I  'd 
go  off  someYs  roun'  town  en  set  up  fer  my- 
se'f,"  said  Jesse,  scratching  his  head  in  a 
dubious  way.  He  felt  very  uncomfortable. 

"  Has  anybody  hurt  your  feelin's,  Jess  ?  " 

"  No,  suh !  Lord,  no,  suh,  dat  dey  ain't !  " 
exclaimed  Jesse,  with  the  emphasis  of  aston 
ishment.  "  Nobody  ain't  pester  me." 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     229 

"Ain't  your  Miss  Sarah  been  rushin'  you 
roun'  too  lively  fer  to  suit  your  notions  ?  " 

"No,  suh." 

"  Ain't  she  been  a-quarrelin'  after  you 
about  your  work  ?  " 

"  No,  Marse  Maje  ;  she  ain't  say  a  word." 

"  Well,  then,  Jess,  what  in  the  name  of 
common  sense  are  you  gwine  off  fer  ?  "  The 
major  wanted  to  argue  the  matter. 

"  I  got  it  in  my  min',  Marse  Maje,  but  I 
dunno  ez  I  kin  git  it  out  straight."  Jesse 
leaned  his  cane  against  the  house,  and 
placed  his  hat  on  the  steps,  as  if  preparing 
for  a  lengthy  and  elaborate  explanation. 
"  Now  den,  hit  look  dis  way  ter  me,  des  like 
I  'm  gwine  ter  tell  you.  I  ain't  nothin'  but 
a  nigger,  I  know  dat  mighty  well,  en  nobody 
don't  hafter  tell  me.  I  'm  a  nigger,  en  you 
a  white  man.  You  're  a-settin'  up  dar  in  de 
peazzer,  en  I  'm  a-stan'in'  down  yer  on  de 
groun'.  I  been  wid  you  a  long  time ;  you 
treat  me  well,  you  gimme  plenty  vittles,  en 
you  pay  me  up  when  you  got  de  money,  en  I 
hustle  roun'  en  do  de  bes'  I  kin  in  de  house 
en  in  de  gyarden.  Dat  de  way  it  been 
gwine  on ;  bofe  un  us  feel  like  it  all  sati' fac 
tual.  Bimeby  it  come  over  me  dat  maybe  I 
kin  do  mo'  work  dan  what  I  been  a-doin'  en 


230     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

git  mo'  money.  Hit  work  roun'  in  my  min' 
dat  I  better  be  layin'  up  somepin'  n'er  fer 
de  ole  'oman  en  de  chillun." 

"  Well !  "  exclaimed  Major  Bass  with  a 
snort.  It  was  all  he  could  say. 

"  En  den  ag'in,"  Jesse  went  on,  "  one  er 
de  ole  fambly  done  come  back  'long  wid  his 
daughter.  Marse  Briscoe  Bascom  en  Miss 
Mildred  dey  done  come  back,  en  dey  ain't 
got  nobody  fer  ter  he'p  um  out  no  way  ;  en 
my  ole  'oman  she  say  dat  ef  I  got  any  fam 
bly  feelin'  I  better  go  dar  whar  Marse  Bris 
coe  is." 

For  some  time  Major  Jimmy  Bass  sat 
silent.  He  was  shocked  and  stunned.  Fi 
nally  Jesse  picked  up  his  hat  and  cane  and 
started  to  go.  As  he  brushed  his  hat  with 
his  coat-sleeve  his  old  master  saw  that  he 
was  rigged  out  in  his  Sunday  clothes.  As 
he  moved  away  the  major  called  him :  — 

"  Oh,  Jess  !  " 

"Suh?" 

"  I  allers  knowed  you  was  a  durned  fool, 
Jess,  but  I  never  did  know  before  that  you 
was  the  durndest  fool  in  the  universal 
world." 

Jesse  made  no  reply,  and  the  major  went 
into  the  house.  When  he  told  his  wife 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     231 

about  Jesse's  departure,  that  active-minded 
and  sharp-tongued  lady  was  very  angry. 

"Indeed,  and  I'm  glad  of  it,"  she  ex 
claimed  as  she  poured  out  the  major's  coffee  ; 
"  I  'm  truly  glad  of  it.  For  twenty-five 
years  that  nigger  has  been  laying  around 
here  doing  nothing,  and  we  a-paying  him. 
But  for  pity's  sake  I  'd  'a'  drove  him  off  the 
lot  long  ago.  You  mayn't  believe  it,  but 
that  nigger  is  ready  and  willing  to  eat  his 
own  weight  in  vittles  every  week  the  Lord 
sends.  I  ain't  sorry  he  's  gone,  but  I  'm 
sorry  I  did  n't  have  a  chance  to  give  him  a 
piece  of  my  mind.  Now,  don't  you  go  to 
blabbing  it  around,  like  you  do  everything 
else,  that  Jesse  has  gone  and  left  us  to  go 
with  old  Briscoe  Bascom." 

Major  Bass  said  he  wouldn't,  and  he 
did  n't,  and  that  is  the  reason  he  expressed 
surprise  when  Joe-Bob  Grissom  informed 
him  that  Jesse  was  waiting  on  the  old  Judge 
and  his  daughter.  Major  Jimmy  was  talka 
tive  and  fond  of  gossip,  but  he  had  too 
much  respect  for  his  wife's  judgment  and 
discretion  to  refuse  to  toe  the  mark,  even 
when  it  was  an  imaginary  one. 

The  Bascom  family  had  no  claim  what 
ever  on  Jesse,  but  he  had  often  heard  his 


232     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

mother  and  other  negroes  boasting  over  that 
they  had  once  belonged  to  the  Bascoms,  and 
fondness  for  the  family  was  the  result  of 
both  tradition  and  instinct.  He  had  that  un 
defined  and  undefinable  respect  for  people  of 
quality  that  is  one  of  the  virtues,  or  possibly 
one  of  the  failings,  of  human  nature.  The 
nearest  approach  to  people  of  quality,  so  far 
as  his  experience  went,  was  to  be  found  in 
the  Bascom  family,  and  he  had  never  for 
gotten  that  he  had  belonged  to  an  important 
branch  of  it.  He  held  it  as  a  sort  of  dis 
tinction.  Feeling  thus,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
he  was  ready  to  leave  a  comfortable  home 
at  Major  Jimmy  Bass's  for  the  privilege  of 
attaching  himself  and  his  fortunes  to  those 
of  the  Judge  and  his  daughter.  Jesse  made 
up  his  mind  to  take  this  step  as  soon  as  the 
Bascoms  returned  to  Hillsborough,  and  he 
made  no  delay  in  carrying  out  his  inten 
tions. 

Early  one  morning,  not  long  after  Judge 
Bascom  and  his  daughter  had  settled  them 
selves  in  the  modest  little  house  which  they 
had  selected  because  the  rent  was  low,  Mil 
dred  heard  some  one  cutting  wood  in  the 

O 

yard.  Opening  her  window  blinds  a  little, 
she  saw  that  the  axe  was  wielded  by  a  stal- 


THE  OLD  B  AS  COM  PLACE.  233 

wart  negro  a  little  past  middle  age.  Her 
father  was  walking  up  and  down  the  side 
walk  on  the  outside  with  his  hands  behind 
him,  and  seemed  to  be  talking  to  himself. 

A  little  while  afterwards  Mildred  went 
into  the  kitchen.  She  found  a  fire  burning 
in  the  stove,  and  everything  in  noticeably 
good  order,  but  the  girl  she  had  employed 
to  help  her  about  the  house  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen.  Whereupon  the  young  lady  called 
her  — 

"Elvira!" 

At  this  the  negro  dropped  his  axe  and 
went  into  the  kitchen. 

"Howdy,  Mistiss?" 

"  Have  you  seen  Elvira  ?  "  Mildred  asked. 

"  Yes  'm,  she  wuz  hangin'  roun'  yer  when 
I  come  roun'  dis  mornin'.  I  went  in  dar, 
ma'm,  en  I  see  how  de  kitchen  wuz  all 
messed  up,  en  den  I  sont  her  off.  She  de 
mos'  no  'countest  nigger  gal  what  I  ever 
laid  my  two  eyes  on.  I  'in  name'  Jesse, 
ma'm,  en  I  use'  ter  b'long  ter  de  Bascom 
fambly  when  I  wuz  a  boy.  Is  you  ready 
fer  breakfus,  Mistiss  ?  " 

"  Has  my  father  —  has  Judge  Bascom 
employed  you  ? "  Mildred  asked.  Jesse 
laughed  as  though  enjoying  a  good  joke. 


234     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

"  No  'm,  dat  he  ain't !  I  des  come  my 
own  se'f,  kaze  I  know'd  in  reason  you  wuz 
gwine  ter  be  in  needance  er  somebody. 
Lord,  no  'm,  none  er  de  Bascoms  don't 
hafter  hire  me,  ma'm." 

"And  who  told  you  to  send  Elvira 
away  ?  "  Mildred  inquired,  half  vexed  and 
half  amused. 

"Nobody  ain't  tell  me,  ma'm,"  Jesse  re 
plied.  "  When  I  come  she  wuz  des  settin' 
in  dar  by  de  stove  noddin',  en  de  whole 
kitchen  look  like  it  been  tored  up  by  a  har- 
rycane.  I  des  shuck  her  up,  I  did,  en  tell 
her  dat  if  dat  de  way  she  gwine  do,  she 
better  go  'long  back  en  stay  wid  her  mam 
my." 

"  Well,  you  are  very  meddlesome,"  said 
Mildred.  "I  don't  understand  you  at  all. 
Who  is  going  to  cook  breakfast?" 

"  Mistiss,  I  done  tell  you  dat  breakftis  is 
all  ready  en  a-waitin',"  exclaimed  Jesse  in 
an  injured  tone.  "  I  made  dat  gal  set  de 
table,  en  dey  ain't  nothin'  ter  do  but  put  de 
vittles  on  it." 

It  turned  out  to  be  a  very  good  breakfast, 
too,  such  as  it  was.  Jesse  thought  while  he 
was  preparing  it  that  it  was  a  very  small 
allowance  for  two  hearty  persons.  But  the 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     235 

secret  of  its  scantiness  cropped  out  while  the 
Judge  and  his  daughter  were  eating. 

"  These  biscuits  are  very  well  cooked. 
But  there  are  too  many  of  them.  My 
daughter,  we  must  pinch  and  save;  it  will 
only  be  for  a  little  while.  We  must  have  the 
old  Place  back  ;  we  must  rake  and  scrape, 
and  save  money  and  buy  it  back.  And  this 
coffee  is  very  good,  too,"  he  went  on ;  "  it 
has  quite  the  old  flavor.  I  thought  the  girl 
was  too  young,  but  she  's  a  good  cook  —  a 
very  good  cook  indeed." 

Jesse,  who  had  taken  his  stand  behind 
the  Judge's  chair,  arrayed  in  a  snow-white 
apron,  moved  his  body  uneasily  from  one 
foot  to  the  other.  Mildred,  glad  to  change 
the  conversation,  told  her  father  about 
Jesse. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Judge  Bascom,  in  his 
kindly,  patronizing  way ;  "  I  saw  him  in  the 
yard.  And  he  used  to  belong  to  the  Bas- 
coms  ?  Well,  well,  it  must  have  been  a 
long  time  ago.  This  is  Jesse  behind  me? 
Stand  out  there,  Jesse,  and  let  me  look  at 
you.  Ah,  yes,  a  likely  negro  ;  a  very  likely 
negro  indeed.  And  what  Bascom  did 
you  belong  to,  Jesse  ?  Merriwether  Bas 
com  !  Why,  to  be  sure  ;  why,  certainly ! " 


236      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

the  Judge  continued  with  as  much  anima 
tion  as  his  feebleness  would  admit  of. 
"  Why,  of  course,  Merriwether  Bascom. 
Well,  well,  I  remember  him  distinctly. 
A  rough-and-tumble  sort  of  man  he  was, 
fighting,  gambling,  horse-racing,  always  on 
the  wing.  A  good  man  at  bottom,  but  wild. 
And  so  you  belonged  to  Merriwether  Bas 
com  ?  Well,  boy,  once  a  Bascom  always  a 
Bascom.  We  '11  have  the  old  Place  back, 
Jesse,  we  '11  have  it  back :  but  we  must 
pinch  ourselves ;  we  must  save." 

Thus  the  old  Judge  rambled  on  in  his 
talk.  But  no  matter  what  the  subject,  no 
matter  how  far  his  memory  and  his  experi 
ences  carried  him  away  from  the  present,  he 
was  sure  to  return  to  the  old  Place  at  last. 
He  must  have  it  back.  Every  thought, 
every  idea,  was  subordinate  to  this.  He 
brooded  over  it  and  talked  of  it  waking,  and 
he  dreamed  of  it  sleeping.  It  was  the  one 
thought  that  dominated  every  other.  Money 
must  be  saved,  the  old  Place  must  be 
bought,  and  to  that  end  everything  must 
tend.  The  more  his  daughter  economized 
the  more  he  urged  her  to  economize.  His 
earnestness  and  enthusiasm  impressed  and 
influenced  the  young  girl  in  a  larger  mea- 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     237 

sure  than  she  would  have  been  willing  to  ac 
knowledge,  and  unconsciously  she  found 
herself  looking  forward  to  the  day  when  her 
father  and  herself  would  be  able  to  call  the 
Bascom  Place  their  own.  In  the  Judge  the 
thought  was  the  delusion  of  old  age,  in  the 
maiden  it  was  the  dream  of  youth ;  and 
pardonable,  perhaps,  in  both. 

Their  hopes  and  desires  running  thus  in 
one  channel,  they  loved  to  wander  of  an  even 
ing  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  old  Place 
—  it  was  just  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town  — 
and  long  for  the  time  when  they  should  take 
possession  of  their  home.  On  these  occa 
sions  Mildred,  by  way  of  interesting  her 
father,  would  suggest  changes  to  be  made. 

"  The  barn  is  painted  red,"  she  would 
say.  "  I  think  olive  green  would  be  pret 
tier." 

"  No,"  the  Judge  would  reply  ;  "  we  will 
have  the  barn  removed.  It  was  not  there  in 
my  time.  It  is  an  innovation.  We  will  have 
it  removed  a  mile  away  from  the  house.  We 
will  make  many  changes.  There  are  hun 
dreds  of  acres  in  the  meadow  yonder  that 
ought  to  be  in  cotton.  In  my  time  we  tried 
to  kill  grass,  but  this  man  is  doing  his  best 
to  propagate  it.  Look  at  that  field  of  Ber- 


238     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

muda  there.  Two  years  of  hard  work  will 
be  required  to  get  the  grass  out." 

Once  while  the  Judge  and  his  daughter 
were  passing  by  the  old  Place  they  met 
Prince,  the  mastiff,  in  the  road.  The  great 
dog  looked  at  the  young  lady  with  kindly 
eyes,  and  expressed  his  approval  by  wagging 
his  tail.  Then  he  approached  and  allowed 
her  to  fondle  his  lionlike  head,  and  walked 
by  her  side,  responding  to  her  talk  in  a 
dumb  but  eloquent  way.  Prince  evidently 
thought  that  the  young  lady  and  her  father 
were  going  in  the  avenue  gate  and  to  the 
house,  for  when  they  got  nearly  opposite, 
the  dog  trotted  on  ahead,  looking  back  occa 
sionally,  as  if  by  that  means  to  extend  them 
an  invitation  and  to  assure  them  that  they 
were  welcome.  At  the  gate  he  stopped  and 
turned  around,  and  seeing  that  the  fair  lady 
and  the  old  gentleman  were  going  by,  he 
dropped  his  bulky  body  on  the  ground  in  a 
disconsolate  way  and  watched  them  as  they 
passed  down  the  street. 

The  next  afternoon  Prince  made  it  a  point 
to  watch  for  the  young  lady ;  and  when  she 
and  her  father  appeared  in  sight  he  ran  to 
meet  them  and  cut  up  such  unusual  capers, 
barking  and  running  around,  that  his  mas- 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     239 

ter  went  down  the  avenue  to  see  what  the 
trouble  was.  Mr.  Underwood  took  off  his 
hat  as  Judge  Bascom  and  his  daughter  drew 
near. 

"This  is  Judge  Bascom,  I  presume,"  he 
said.  "My  name  is  Underwood.  I  am 
glad  to  meet  you." 

"  This  is  my  daughter,  Mr.  Underwood," 
said  the  Judge,  bowing  with  great  dignity. 

"  My  dog  has  paid  you  a  great  compliment, 
Miss  Bascom,"  said  Francis  Underwood. 
"  He  makes  few  friends,  and  I  have  never 
before  seen  him  sacrifice  his  dignity  to  his 
enthusiasm." 

"  I  feel  highly  flattered  by  his  attentions," 
said  Mildred,  laughing.  "  I  have  read  some 
where,  or  heard  it  said,  that  the  instincts  of 
a  little  child  and  a  dog  are  unerring." 

"  I  imagine,"  said  the  Judge,  in  his  digni 
fied  way,  "  that  instinct  has  little  to  do  with 
the  matter.  I  prefer  to  believe  "  -  He 
paused  a  moment,  looked  at  Underwood,  and 
laid  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  stalwart 
shoulder.  "  Did  you  know,  sir,"  he  went 
on,  "  that  this  place,  all  these  lands,  once 
belonged  to  me  ?  "  His  dignity  had  van 
ished,  his  whole  attitude  changed.  The 
pathos  in  his  voice,  which  was  suggested 


240     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

rather  than  expressed,  swept  away  whatever 
astonishment  Francis  Underwood  might  have 
felt.  The  young  man  looked  at  the  Judge's 
daughter  and  their  eyes  met.  In  that  one 
glance,  transitory  though  it  was,  he  found 
his  cue ;  in  her  lustrous  eyes,  proud  yet  ap 
pealing,  he  read  a  history  of  trouble  and 
sacrifice. 

"  Yes,"  Underwood  replied,  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  way.  "  I  knew  the  place  once  be 
longed  to  you,  and  I  have  been  somewhat 
proud  of  the  fact.  We  still  call  it  the  Bas- 
com  Place,  you  know." 

"  I  should  think  so !  "  exclaimed  the 
Judge,  bridling  up  a  little  ;  "  I  should  think 
so !  Pray  what  else  could  it  be  called?  " 

"  Well,  it  might  have  been  called  Grass 
lands,  you  know,  or  The  Poplars,  but  some 
how  the  old  name  seemed  to  suit  it  best.  I 
like  to  think  of  it  as  the  Bascom  Place." 

"  You  are  right,  sir,"  said  the  Judge  with 
emphasis ;  "  you  are  right,  sir.  It  is  the 
Bascom  Place.  All  the  powers  of  earth 
cannot  strip  us  of  our  name." 

Again  Underwood  looked  at  the  young 
girl,  and  again  he  read  in  her  shining  but 
apprehensive  eyes  the  answer  he  should 
make. 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     241 

"  I  have  been  compelled  to  add  some  con 
veniences  —  I  will  not  call  them  improve 
ments  —  and  I  have  made  some  repairs,  but 
I  have  tried  to  preserve  the  main  and  fa 
miliar  features  of  the  Place." 

"But  the  barn  there;  that  is  not  where 
it  should  be.  It  should  be  a  mile  away  — 
on  the  creek." 

"  That  would  improve  appearances,  no 
doubt ;  but  if  you  were  to  get  out  at  four  or 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  see  to  the 
milking  of  twelve  or  fifteen  cows,  I  dare  say 
you  would  wish  the  barn  even  nearer  than 
it  is." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  responded  the 
Judge ;  "  yes,  no  doubt.  But  it  was  not 
there  in  my  time  —  not  in  my  time." 

"  I  have  some  very  fine  cows,"  Underwood 
went  on.  "  Won't  you  go  in  and  look  at 
them?  I  think  they  would  interest  Miss 
Bascom,  and  my  sister  would  be  glad  to  meet 
her.  Won't  you  go  in,  sir,  and  look  at  the 
old  house?" 

The  Judge  turned  his  pale  and  wrinkled 
face  towards  his  old  home. 

"No,"  he  said,  "not  now.  I  thank  you 
very  much.  I  —  somehow  —  no,  sir,  I  can 
not  go  now." 


242      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

His  hand  shook  as  he  raised  it  to  his  face, 
and  his  lips  trembled  as  he  spoke. 

"  Let  us  go  home,  daughter,"  he  said  after 
a  while.  "  We  have  walked  far  enough." 
He  bowed  to  young  Underwood,  and  Mildred 
bade  him  good-bye  with  a  troubled  smile. 

Prince  went  with  them  a  little  way  down 
the  street.  He  walked  by  the  side  of  the 
lady,  and  her  pretty  hand  rested  lightly  on 
the  dog's  massive  head.  It  was  a  beautiful 
picture,  Underwood  thought,  as  he  stood 
watching  them  pass  out  of  sight. 

"  You  are  a  lucky  dog,"  he  said  to  Prince 
when  the  latter  came  back,  "  but  you  don't 
appreciate  your  privileges.  If  you  did  you 
would  have  gone  home  with  that  lovely 
woman."  Prince  wagged  his  tail,  but  it  is 
doubtful  if  he  fully  understood  the  remark. 

V. 

One  Sunday  morning,  as  Major  Jimmy 
Bass  was  shaving  himself,  he  heard  a  knock 
at  the  back  door.  The  major  had  his  coat 
and  waistcoat  off  and  his  suspenders  were 
hanging  around  his  hips.  He  was  applying 
the  lather  for  the  last  time,  and  the  knock 
ing  was  so  sudden  and  unexpected  that  he 


THE   OLD  £  AS  COM  PLACE.  243 

rubbed  the  shaving-brush  in  one  of  his  eyes. 
He  began  to  make  some  remarks  which,  how 
ever  appropriate  they  may  have  been  to  the 
occasion,  could  not  be  reported  here  with 
propriety.  But  in  the  midst  of  his  indig 
nant  monologue  he  remembered  that  the 
knocking  might  have  proceeded  from  some 
of  Mrs.  Bass's  lady  friends,  who  frequently 
made  a  descent  on  the  premises  in  that  di 
rection  for  the  purpose  of  borrowing  a  cup 
ful  of  sugar  or  coffee  in  a  social  way.  These 
considerations  acted  as  powerful  brakes  on 
the  conversation  that  Major  Bass  was  carry 
ing  on  with  some  imaginary  foe.  Holding 
a  towel  to  his  smarting  eye,  he  peeped  from 
his  room  door  and  looked  down  the  hall. 
The  back  door  was  open,  but  he  could  see 
no  one. 

"  Who  was  that  knocking  ?  "  he  cried. 
"  I  '11  go  one  eye  on  you  anyways." 

"  'T  ain't  nobody  but  me,  Marse  Maje," 
came  the  response  from  the  door. 

"Is  that  you,  Jess?"  exclaimed  the  major. 
"  Well,  pleg-take  your  hide  to  the  pleg-taked 
nation !  A  little  more  an'  you  'd  'a'  made 
me  cut  my  th'oat  from  year  to  year ;  an'  as 
it  is,  I  've  jest  about  got  enough  soap  in  my 
eye  fer  to  do  a  day's  washin'." 


244      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

"  Is  you  shavin'  yourse'f ,  Marse  Maje  ?  " 
asked  Jesse,  diplomatically. 

"  That  I  am,"  replied  the  major  with  em 
phasis.  "  I  allers  was  independent  of  white 
folks,  an'  sence  you  pulled  up  your  stakes 
an'  took  up  wi'  the  quality  I  'm  about  inde 
pendent  of  the  niggers.  An'  it 's  mighty 
quare  to  me,"  the  major  went  on,  "  that 
you  'd  leave  your  high  an'  mighty  people 
long  enough  fer  to  come  a-bangin'  an'  makin' 
me  put  out  my  eyes.  Why,  ef  I  'd  'a'  had 
my  razor  out,  I  '11  be  boun'  you  'd  made  me 
cut  my  th'oat,  an'  much  good  may  it  'a'  done 
you." 

"Name  er  goodness,  Marse  Maje,"  pro 
tested  Jesse,  "what  make  you  go  on  dat 
a-way  ?  Ef  I  'd  'a'  knowed  you  wuz  busy 
in  dar  I  'd  'a'  set  out  in  de  sun  en  waited 
twel  you  got  thoo." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  major  in  a  sarcastic  but 
somewhat  mollified  tone,  "  you  'd  'a'  sot  out 
there  an'  got  to  noddin',  an'  then  bimeby 
your  Miss  Sarah  would  'a'  come  along  an' 
ketched  you  there,  an'  I  '11  be  boun'  she  'd 
'a'  lammed  you  wi'  a  chunk  of  wood ;  bekaze 
she  don't  'low  no  loafin'  in  the  back  yard 
sence  you  been  gone.  I  don't  know  what 
you  come  fer,"  the  major  continued,  still 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     245 

wiping  the  lather  out  of  his  eye,  "an'  nuthei- 
do  I  keer ;  but  sence  you  are  here  you  kin 
come  in  an'  finish  shavin'  me,  fer  to  pay  fer 
the  damage  you  Ve  done." 

Jesse  was  apparently  overjoyed  to  find 
that  he  could  be  of  some  service.  He  bus 
tled  around  in  the  liveliest  manner,  and  was 
soon  mowing  the  major's  fat  face  with  the 
light  but  firm  touch  for  which  he  was  noted. 
As  he  shaved  he  talked. 

"Marse  Maje,"  he  said,  "does  you  know 
what  I  come  fer  dis  mornin'  ?  " 

" I  've  been  tryin'  to  think,"  replied  the 
major;  "but  I  couldn't  tell  you  ef  I  was 
a-gwine  to  be  hung  fer  it.  You  are  up  to 
some  devilment,  I  know  mighty  well,  but  I 
wish 't  I  may  die  ef  I  Ve  got  any  idee  what 

it  is." 

"Now,  Marse  Maje,  what  make  you  talk 

dat'a'way?" 

"Oh,  I  know  you,  Jess,  an'  I've  been 
a-knowin'  you  a  mighty  long  time.  Your 
Miss  Sarah  mayn't  know  you,  Jess,  but^I 
know  you  from  the  groun'  all  the  way  up." 

Jesse  laughed.  He  was  well  aware  that 
the  major's  wife  was  the  knowing  one  of 
that  family.  He  had  waited  until  that  ex 
cellent  lady  had  issued  from  the  house  on 


246  THE  OLD  B AS  COM  PLACE. 

her  way  to  church,  and  it  was  not  until  she 
was  out  of  sight  that  he  thought  it  safe  to 
call  on  the  major.  Even  now,  after  he  had 
found  the  major  alone,  the  negro  was  some 
what  doubtful  as  to  the  propriety  of  explain 
ing  the  nature  of  his  business ;  but  the  old 
man  was  inquisitive. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Jess ! "  the  major  went  on,  after 
pausing  long  enough  to  have  the  corner  of 
his  mouth  shaved  —  "  oh,  yes  !  I  know  you, 
an'  I  know  you  've  got  somethin'  on  your 
min'  right  now.  Spit  it  out." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  de  trufe,  Marse 
Maje,"  said  Jesse,  after  hesitating  for  some 
time ;  "  I  tell  you  de  Lord's  trufe,  I  come 
yer  atter  somepin'  ter  eat." 

Major  Bass  caught  the  negro  by  the  arm, 
pushed  the  razor  carefully  out  of  the  way, 
and  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  chair. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  stan'  up  there,  you  tri- 
flin'  rascal,"  the  major  exclaimed,  "  an'  tell 
me,  right  before  my  face  an'  eyes,  that 
you  've  come  a-sneaking  back  here  atter  vit- 
tles  ?  Why  n't  you  stay  where  the  vittles 
was  ?  "  Major  Bass  was  really  indignant. 

"  Wait,  Marse  Maje ;  des  gimme  time," 
said  Jesse,  nervously  strapping  the  razor  on 
the  palm  of  his  hand.  "  Des  gimme  time," 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     247 

Marse  Maje.  You  fly  up  so,  suh,  dat  you 
git  me  all  mixed  up  wid  myse'f.  I  come 
atter  vittles,  dat  's  de  Lord's  trufe ;  but  I 
ain't  come  atter  'em  fer  myse'f.  Nigger 
like  me  don't  stay  hongry  long  roun'  whar 
folks  know  um  like  dey  does  me." 

"Well,  who  in  the  name  of  reason  sent 
you,  then?"  asked  the  major. 

"  Nobody  ain't  sont  me,  suh,"  said  Jesse. 

"Well,  who  do  you  want  em'  fer?"  in 
sisted  the  major. 

"  Marse  Judge  Bascom  en  Miss  Mildred," 
replied  Jesse  solemnly. 

Major  Jimmy  Bass  fell  back  in  his  chair 
in  a  state  of  collapse,  overcome  by  his  aston- 
ment. 

"  Well !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  soon  as  he 
could  catch  his  breath.  "Ef  this  don't  beat 
the  Jews  an'  the  Gentiles,  the  Scribes  an' 
the  Pharisees,  then  I  ain't  a-settin'  here. 
Did  they  tell  you  to  come  to  this  house  fer 
vittles?" 

"  No,  suh ;  dat  dey  ain't  —  dat  dey  ain't ! 
Ef  Miss  Mildred  wuz  ter  know  I  went  any- 
whar  on  dis  kin'  er  errun'  she'd  mighty 
nigh  have  a  fit." 

"  Well,  well,  WELL  !  "  snorted  the  major. 

"  I  des  come  my  own  se'f ,"  Jesse  went 


248  THE   OLD  B  AS  COM  PLACE. 

on.  He  would  have  begun  shaving  again, 
but  the  major  waved  him  away.  "  Look 
like  I  'bleege'  ter  come.  You'd  'a'  come 
yo'se'f,  Marse  Maje,  druther  dan  see  dem 
folks  pe'sh  deyse'f  ter  deff.  Dey  got  money, 
but  Marse  Judge  Bascom  got  de  idee  dat 
dey  hafter  save  it  all  fer  ter  buy  back  de 
ole  Place.  Dey  pinch  deyse'f  day  in  en  day 
out,  en  yistiddy  when  Miss  Mildred  say  she 
gwine  buy  somepin'  fer  Sunday,  Marse 
Judge  Bascom  he  say  no ;  he  'low  dat  dey 
mus'  save  en  pinch  en  buy  back  de  ole 
home.  I  done  year  him  say  dat  twel  it 
make  me  plum  sick.  An'  dar  dey  is  natu 
rally  starvin'  deyse'f. 

"Miss  Mildred,"  continued  Jesse,  "got 
idee  dat  her  pa  know  what  he  talkin'  'bout ; 
but  twix'  you  en  me,  Marse  Maje,  dat  ole 
man  done  about  lose  his  min'.  He  ain't  so 
mighty  much  older  dan  what  you  is,  but  he 
mighty  feeble  in  his  limbs,  en  he  mighty 
flighty  in  his  head.  He  talk  funny,  now, 
en  he  don't  talk  'bout  nothin'  skacely  but 
buyin'  back  the  ole  Place." 

"Jess,"  said  Major  Bass  in  the  smooth, 
insinuating  tone  that  the  negro  knew  so  well, 
and  that  he  had  learned  to  fear,  "  ain't  I 
allers  treated  you  right  ?  Ain't  I  allers 
done  the  clean  thing  by  you  ?  " 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     249 

"  Yes,  Marse  Maje,  you  is,"  said  the  ne 
gro  with  emphasis. 

"  Well,  then,  Jess,  what  in  the  name  of 
Moses  do  you  want  to  come  roun'  me  wi' 
such  a  tale  as  this?  Don't  you  know  I 
know  you  clean  through  ?  Why  n't  you 
come  right  out  an'  say  you  want  the  vittles 
f er  yourself  ?  What  is  the  use  whippin'  the 
devil  'roun'  the  stump  ?  " 

"Marse  Maje,"  said  Jesse,  solemnly, 
"  I  'm  a-tellin'  you  de  Lord's  trufe."  By 
this  time  he  had  begun  to  shave  the  major 
again. 

"  Well,"  said  Major  Bass,  after  a  pause, 
during  which  he  seemed  to  be  thinking, 
"  suppos'n'  I  was  to  let  myself  be  took  in  by 
your  tale,  an'  suppos'n'  I  was  to  give  you 
some  vittles,  what  have  you  got  to  put  'em 
in?" 

"I  got  a  basket  out  dar,  Marse  Maje," 
said  Jesse,  cheerfully.  "  I  brung  it  a  pur 
pose." 

"  Why,  tooby  shore,  tooby  shore ! "  ex 
claimed  the  major,  sarcastically.  "  Ef  you 
was  as  forehanded  as  you  is  fore-thoughted 
you  would  n't  be  a-runnin'  roun'  beggin'  vit 
tles  from  han'  to  mouth.  But  sence  you  are 
here  you'd  better  make  haste ;  bekaze  ef  your 


250     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

Miss  Sarah  comes  back  from  church  and 
ketches  you  here,  she  '11  kick  up  a  purty 
rippit." 

The  major  was  correct.  As  he  and  Jesse 
went  into  the  pantry  Mrs.  Bass  entered  the 
front  door.  Flinging  her  bonnet  and  man 
tilla  on  a  bed,  she  went  to  the  back  porch 
for  a  drink  of  water.  The  major  heard  her 
coming  through  the  hallway,  and,  by  a  swift 
gesture  of  his  hand,  cautioned  Jesse  to  be 
quiet. 

"  I  '11  vow  if  the  place  ain't  left  to  take 
care  of  itself,"  Mrs.  Bass  was  saying. 
"  Doors  all  open,  chickens  in  the  dining- 
room,  cat  licking  the  churn-dasher,  and  I  '11 
bet  my  existence  that  not  a  drop  of  fresh 
water  has  been  put  in  the  house  -  bucket 
since  I  left  this  morning.  Everything  gone 
to  rack  and  ruin.  I  can't  say  my  prayers 
in  peace  at  home,  and  if  I  go  to  church  one 
Sunday  in  a  month  there  ain't  no  satisfac 
tion  in  the  sermon,  because  I  know  every 
thing  's  at  loose  ends  on  this  whole  blessed 
place.  And  if  you  'd  go  up  the  street  right 
now,  you  'd  find  Mr.  Bass  a-setting  up  there 
at  the  tavern  with  the  other  loafers,  a-gig- 
gling  and  a-snickering  and  a-dribbling  at 
the  mouth  like  one  possessed." 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.      251 

The  major,  in  the  pantry,  winced  visibly 
at  this  picture  drawn  true  to  life,  and  as  he 
attempted  to  change  his  position  he  knocked 
a  tin  vessel  from  one  of  the  shelves.  He 
caught  at  it,  and  it  fell  to  the  floor  with  a 
loud  crash. 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy ! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Bass.  "  Is  Satan  and  all  his  imps  in 
the  pantry,  a-tearing  down  and  a-smashing 
up  things  ?  "  Not  being  a  timid  woman, 
she  hastened  to  investigate.  The  sight  she 
saw  in  the  pantry  struck  her  speechless.  In 
one  corner  stood  the  major,  holding  up  one 
foot,  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  breaking  some 
thing,  and  vainly  trying  to  smile.  In 
another  corner  stood  Jesse,  so  badly  fright 
ened  that  very  little  could  be  seen  of  his 
face  except  the  whites  of  his  eyes.  The 
tableau  was  a  comical  one.  Mrs.  Bass  did 
not  long  remain  speechless. 

"  Mr.  Bass !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  what  un 
der  the  shining  sun  are  you  doing  collogu 
ing  with  niggers  in  my  pantry?  If  you 
want  to  collogue  with  niggers,  why,  in  the 
name  of  common  sense,  don't  you  take  'em 
out  to  the  barn?  What  are  you  doing  in 
there,  anyhow?  For  mercy's  sake!  have 
you  gone  stark-natural  crazy  ?  And  if  you 


252     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

ain't,  what  brand-new  caper  are  you  trying 
to  cut  up  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  so  loud,  Sarah,"  said  the  ma 
jor,  wiping  the  cold  perspiration  from  his 
face.  "  All  the  neighbors  '11  hear  you." 

"  And  why  should  n't  they  hear  me  ?  "  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Bass.  "  What  could  be  worse 
than  for  me  to  come  home  from  church  in 
broad  daylight  and  find  you  penned  up  in 
my  pantry,  arm-in-arm  with  a  nigger? 
What  business  have  you  got  with  niggers 
that  you  have  to  take  'em  into  my  pantry  to 
collogue  with  'em  ?  I  'd  a  heap  rather 
you  'd  'a'  taken  'em  in  the  parlor  —  a  heap 
rather." 

Then  Mrs.  Bass's  eyes  fell  on  the  basket 
Jesse  had  in  his  hand,  and  this  added  to  her 
indignation. 

"I  believe  in  my  soul,"  she  went  on, 
"  that  you  are  stealing  the  meat  and  bread 
out  of  your  own  mouth  to  feed  that  nigger. 
If  you  ain't,  what  is  the  basket  for  ?  " 

"  Tut,  tut,  Sarah,  don't  you  go  on  so ; 
you  '11  make  yourself  the  laughin'-stock  of 
the  town,"  said  the  major  in  a  conciliatory 
tone. 

"  And  what  ?11  you  be  ?  "  continued  Mrs. 
Bass,  relentlessly;  "what '11  you  be  —  a 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     253 

honeyin'  up  with  buck  niggers  in  my  pantry 
in  the  broad  open  daytime?  Maybe  you  '11 
have  the  manners  to  introduce  me  to  your 
pardner.  Who  is  he,  anyhow?''  Then 
Mrs.  Bass  turned  her  attention  to  the  negro. 

"  Come  out  of  my  pantry,  you  nasty,  tri 
fling  rascal !  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  'T  ain't  nobody  but  me,  Miss  Sa'ah," 
said  Jesse  as  he  issued  forth. 

"  You !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  are  the 
nigger  that  was  too  biggity  to  stay  with  'em 
that  raised  you  up  and  took  care  of  you,  and 
now  you  come  back  and  try  to  steal  their 
bread  and  meat !  Well !  I  know  the  end  of 
the  world  ain't  so  mighty  far  off." 

Mrs,  Bass  sank  into  a  chair,  exhausted  by 
her  indignation.  Then  the  major  took  the 
floor,  so  to  say,  and  showed  that  if  he  could 
be  frightened  by  his  wife,  he  could  also,  at  the 
proper  time,  show  that  he  had  a  will  of  his 
own.  He  explained  the  situation  at  some 
length,  and  with  an  emphasis  that  carried 
conviction  with  it.  He  made  no  mention  of 
Jesse  in  his  highly  colored  narrative,  but 
left  his  wife  to  infer  that  while  she  was  at 
church  praying  for  peace  of  mind  and  not 
having  her  prayers  answered  to  any  great 
extent,  he  was  at  home  engaged  in  works  of 


254  THE   OLD  £  AS  COM  PLACE. 

practical  charity.  Nothing  could  have  been 
finer  than  the  major's  air  of  injured  inno 
cence,  unless  it  was  Jesse's  attitude  of  help 
less  and  abandoned  humiliation.  The  result 
of  it  was  that  Mrs.  Bass  filled  the  basket 
with  the  best  she  had  in  the  house,  and 
Jesse  went  home  happy. 


VI. 


As  for  the  Bascoms,  they  seemed  to  be 
getting  along  comfortably  in  spite  of  the 
harrowing  story  that  Jesse  had  told  to  Ma 
jor  Jimmy  Bass  and  to  others.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  the  shrewd  negro  had  purposely 
exaggerated  the  condition  of  affairs  in  the 
Bascom  household.  He  had  an  idea  that 
the  fare  they  lived  on  was  too  common  and 
cheap  for  the  representatives  of  such  a 
grand  family,  forgetting,  or  not  knowing, 
the  privations  they  had  passed  through. 
The  Judge  insisted  on  the  most  rigid  econ 
omy,  and  Mildred  was  at  one  with  him  in 
this.  She  was  familiar  with  the  necessity 
for  it,  but  she  could  see  that  her  father  was 
anxious  to  push  it  to  unmeasurable  lengths. 
It  never  occurred  to  her,  however,  that  her 
father's  morbid  anxiety  to  repossess  the 


THE  OLD  B 'AS COM  PLACE.  255 

Bascom  Place  was  rapidly  taking  the  shape 
of  mania.  This  desire  on  the  part  of  Judge 
Bascom  was  a  part  of  his  daughter's  life. 
She  had  heard  it  expressed  in  various  ways 
ever  since  she  could  remember,  and  it  was  a 
part,  not  merely  of  her  experience,  but  of 
her  growth  and  development.  She  had 
heard  the  matter  discussed  so  many  times 
that  it  seemed  to  her  nothing  but  natural 
that  her  father  should  one  day  realize  the 
dream  of  his  later  years  and  reoccupy  the 
old  Place  as  proprietor. 

Judge  Bascom  had  no  other  thought  than 
this.  As  he  grew  older  and  feebler,  the  de 
sire  became  more  ardent  and  overpowering. 
While  his  daughter  was  teaching  her  school, 
with  which  she  had  made  quite  a  success, 
the  Judge  would  be  planning  improvements 
to  be  added  to  his  old  home  when  he  should 
own  it  again.  Not  a  day  passed  —  unless, 
indeed,  the  weather  was  stormy  —  that  he 
did  not  walk  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  old 
Place.  Sometimes  he  would  go  with  his 
daughter,  sometimes  he  would  go  alone,  but 
it  was  observed  by  those  who  came  to  be  in 
terested  in  his  comings  and  goings  that  he 
invariably  refused  to  accept  the  invitation 
of  Mr.  Underwood  to  enter  the  house  or  to 


256      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

inspect  the  improvements  that  had  been 
made.  He  persisted  in  remaining  on  the 
outside  of  the  domain,  content  to  wait  for 
the  day  when  he  could  enter  as  proprietor. 
He  was  willing  to  accept  the  position  of 
spectator,  but  he  was  not  willing  to  be  a 
guest. 

The  culmination  came  one  fine  day  in  the 
fall,  and  it  was  so  sudden  and  so  peculiar 
that  it  took  Hillsborough  completely  by 
surprise,  and  gave  the  people  food  for  gos 
sip  for  a  long  time  afterwards.  The  season 
was  hesitating  as  to  whether  summer  should 
return  or  winter  should  be  introduced. 
There  was  a  hint  of  winter  in  the  crisp 
morning  breezes,  but  the  world  seemed  to 
float  summerwards  in  the  glimmering  haze 
that  wrapped  the  hills  in  the  afternoons. 
On  one  of  these  fine  mornings  Judge  Bas- 
com  rose  and  dressed  himself.  His  daughter 
heard  him  humming  a  tune  as  he  walked 
about  the  room,  and  she  observed  also,  with 
inward  satisfaction,  that  his  movements  were 
brisker  than  usual.  Listening  a  little  atten 
tively,  she  heard  him  talking  to  himself,  and 
presently  she  heard  him  laugh.  This  was 
such  an  unusual  occurrence  that  she  was 
moved  to  knock  at  his  door.  He  responded 


THE   OLD  B AS COM  PLACE.  257 

with  a  cheery  "  Gome  in !  "  Mildred  found 
him  shaved  and  dressed,  and  she  saw  that 
there  was  a  great  change  in  his  appearance. 
His  cheeks,  usually  so  wan  and  white,  were 
flushed  a  little  and  his  eyes  were  bright. 
He  smiled  as  Mildred  entered,  and  ex 
claimed  in  a  tone  that  she  had  not  heard  for 
years : — 

"  Good-morning,  my  daughter !  And  how 
do  you  find  yourself  this  morning?  " 

It  was  the  old  manner  she  used  to  admire 
so  when  she  was  a  slip  of  a  girl  —  a  manner 
that  was  a  charming  combination  of  dignity 
and  affection. 

"  Why,  father !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  you 
must  be  feeling  better.  You  have  positively 
grown  younger  in  a  night." 

The  Judge  laughed  until  his  eyes  spar 
kled.  "  Yes,  my  dear,  I  am  feeling  very  well 
indeed.  I  never  felt  better.  I  am  happy, 
quite  happy.  Everything  has  been  made 
clear  to  me.  I  am  going  to-day  to  transact 
some  business  that  has  been  troubling  me 
a  long  time.  I  shall  arrange  it  all  to-day 
—  yes,  to-day." 

The  change  that  had  come  over  her  father 
was  such  a  relief  to  Mildred  that  she  asked 
him  no  questions.  Now,  as  always,  she 


258      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

trusted  to  his  judgment  and  his  experience. 
Jesse,  however,  was  more  critical.  He 
watched  the  Judge  furtively  and  shook  his 
head. 

"Mistiss,"  he  said  to  Mildred  when  he 
found  an  opportunity,  "  did  you  shave  mas 
ter  ?  " 

"  Why.  what  a  ridiculous  question  !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  How  could  I  shave  him  ?  It 
makes  me  shiver  merely  to  touch  the  ra 
zors." 

"Well,  Mistiss,"  Jesse  insisted,  "ef  I 
ain't  shave  him,  en  you  ain't  shave  him,  den 
who  de  name  er  goodness  is  done  gone  en 
done  it  ?  " 

"  He  shaved  himself,  of  course,"  Mildred 
said.  "  He  is  very  much  better  this  morn 
ing.  I  noticed  it  the  moment  I  saw  him.  I 
should  think  you  could  see  it  yourself." 

"  I  seed  somepin'  nuther  wuz  de  matter," 
said  Jesse.  "Somepin'  'bleege'  ter  be  de 
matter  when  I  put  him  ter  bed  las'  night 
des  like  he  wuz  a  baby,  ma'm,  en  now  yer  he 
is  gwine  roun'  des  ez  spry  ez  de  nex'  one. 
Yessum,  somepin'  'bleege'  ter  be  de  matter. 
Yistiddy  his  han's  wuz  shakin'  same  like  he 
got  de  polzy,  ma'm,  en  now  yer  he  is  shavin' 
hisse'f ;  dat  what  rack  my  min'." 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.      259 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  are  glad  he  is  so  well, 
Jesse,"  said  Mildred  in  an  injured  tone. 

"  Oh,  yessum,"  said  Jesse,  scratching  his 
head.  uLor',  yessum.  Dey  ain't  nobody 
no  gladder  dan  what  I  is ;  but  it  come  on 
me  so  sudden,  ma'm,  dat  it  sorter  skeer  me." 

"  Well,  it  does  n't  frighten  me,"  said  Mil 
dred.  "  It  makes  me  very  happy." 

"Yessum,"  replied  Jesse  deferentially. 
He  made  no  further  comment;  but  after 
Mildred  had  gone  to  attend  to  her  school 
duties  he  made  it  his  business  to  keep  an 
eye  011  the  Judge,  and  the  closer  the  negro 
watched,  the  more  forcibly  was  he  struck 
by  the  great  change  that  a  night  had  made 
in  the  old  man. 

"I  hear  talk  'bout  folks  bein'  conjured 
inter  sickness,"  Jesse  said  to  himself,  "  but 
I  ain't  never  hear  talk  'bout  dey  bein'  con 
jured  so  dey  git  well." 

Certainly  a  great  change  had  come  over 
Judge  Bascom.  He  stood  firmly  on  his  feet 
once  more.  He  held  his  head  erect,  as  in 
the  old  days,  and  when  he  talked  to  Jesse 
his  tone  was  patronizing  and  commanding, 
instead  of  querulous  and  complaining.  He 
seemed  to  be  very  fastidious  about  his  ap 
pearance.  After  Mildred  had  gone  to  her 


260     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

school,  Jesse  was  called  in  to  brush  the 
Judge's  hat  and  coat  and  to  polish  his  shoes. 
The  Judge  watched  this  process  with  great 
interest,  and  talked  to  the  negro  in  his 
blandest  manner.  This  was  not  so  surpris 
ing  to  Jesse  as  the  fact  that  the  Judge  per 
sisted  in  calling  him  Wesley ;  Wesley  was 
the  Judge's  old  body-servant  who  had  been 
dead  for  twenty  years.  It  was  Wesley  this 
and  Wesley  that  so  long  as  Jesse  was  in 
the  room,  and  once  the  Judge  asked  how 
long  before  the  carriage  would  be  ready. 
The  negro  parried  this  question,  but  he  re 
membered  it.  He  was  sorely  puzzled  an 
hour  afterwards,  however,  when  Judge  Bas- 
com  called  him  and  said :  — 

"  Wesley,  tell  Jordan  he  need  not  bring 
the  carriage  around  for  me.  I  will  walk. 
Jordan  can  bring  your  mistress  when  she  is 
ready." 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Jesse,  when  the  Judge 
disappeared  in  the  house,  "  dis  bangs  me ! 
What  de  name  er  goodness  put  de  ole  man 
Jerd'n  in  his  rnin',  which  he  died  endurance 
er  de  war  ?  It 's  all  away  beyant  me.  Miss 
Mildred  oughter  be  yer  wid  her  pa  right 
now,  yit,  ef  I  go  atter  her,  dey  ain't  no 
tellin'  what  he  gwine  do." 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     261 

Jess  cut  an  armful  of  wood,  and  then 
made  a  pretense  of  washing  dishes,  going 
from  the  kitchen  to  the  dining-room  several 
times..  More  than  once  he  stopped  to  listen, 
but  he  could  hear  nothing.  After  a  while 
he  made  bold  to  peep  into  the  sitting-room. 
There  was  nobody  there.  He  went  into  the 
Judge's  bedroom ;  it  was  empty.  Then  he 
called  —  "  Marster  !  oh,  Marster  !  "  but  there 
was  no  reply.  Jess  was  in  a  quandary.  He 
was  not  alarmed,  but  he  was  uneasy. 

"  Ef  I  run  en  tell  Miss  Mildred  dat  Mars 
ter  done  gone  som'ers,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"she'll  des  laugh  en  say  I  ain't  got  no 
sense ;  en  I  don't  speck  I  is,  but  it  make  my 
flesh  crawl  fer  ter  hear  folks  callin'  on  dead 
niggers  ter  do  dis  en  do  dat." 

Meanwhile  the  Judge  had  sallied  forth 
from  the  house,  and  was  proceeding  in  the 
direction  of  the  Bascom  Place.  His  step 
was  firm  and  elastic,  his  bearing  dignified. 
The  acquaintances  whom  he  met  on  his  way 
stopped  and  looked  after  him  when  they  had 
returned  his  Chesterfieldian  salutation.  He 
walked  rapidly,  and  there  was  an  air  of  deci 
sion  in  his  movements  that  had  long  been 
lacking.  At  the  great  gate  opening  into  the 
avenue  of  the  Bascom  Place  the  Judge  was 


262     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

met  by  Prince  the  mastiff,  who  gave  him  a 
hospitable  welcome,  and  gravely  preceded 
him  to  the  house.  Miss  Sophie,  Mr.  Under 
wood's  maiden  sister,  who  was  sitting.in  the 
piazza,  engaged  on  some  kind  of  feminine 
embroidery,  saw  the  Judge  coming,  too  late 
to  beat  a  retreat,  so  she  merely  whipped  be 
hind  one  of  the  large  pillars,  gave  her  dress 
a  little  shake  at  the  sides  and  behind,  ran 
her  hands  over  her  hair,  and  appeared  be 
fore  the  caller  cool,  calm,  and  collected. 

"  Good-morning,  madam,"  said  the  Judge 
in  his  grand  way,  taking  off  his  hat. 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  said  Miss  Sophie. 
"  Have  this  chair  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  Judge,  smiling  blandly, 
and  waving  his  hand.  "  I  prefer  my  own 
chair  —  the  large  rocker  with  the  cushion, 
you  know.  It  is  more  comfortable." 

Somewhat  puzzled,  Miss  Sophie  fetched  a 
rocker.  Ifc  had  no  cushion,  but  the  Judge 
seemed  not  to  miss  it. 

"Why,  where  are  the  servants?"  he 
asked,  his  brows  contracting  a  little.  "I 
could  have  brought  the  chair." 

"  Mercy !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Sophie,  "  if  I 
were  to  sit  down  and  expect  the  negroes  to 
wait  on  me,  I  'd  have  a  good  many  disap 
pointments  during  the  day." 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.  •    263 

"Yes,"  said  the  Judge,  "that  is  very 
true;  very  true.  Where  is  "Wesley ?" 

"  I  ?m  sure  I  don't  know,"  Miss  Sophie 
replied.  "  Is  he  a  white  man  or  a  negro  ?  " 

"  Wesley  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Judge.  "  Why, 
he  's  a  nigger  ;  he 's  my  body-servant." 

"  Is  n't  this  Judge  Bascom  ?  "  Miss  So 
phie  inquired,  regarding  him  curiously. 

"Yes,  certainly,  madam,"  responded  the 
Judge. 

"  Well,  I  've  seen  a  negro  named  Jesse 
following  you  and  your  daughter  about," 
said  Miss  Sophie.  "  Perhaps  you  are  speak 
ing  of  Jesse.''' 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  Judge.  "  I  mean 
Wesley  —  or  maybe  you  are  only  a  visitor 
here.  Your  face  is  familiar,  but  I  have  for 
gotten  your  name." 

"  I  am  Francis  Underwood's  sister,"  said 
Miss  Sophie,  with  some  degree  of  pride. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  "  the  Judge  sighed  —  "  Fran 
cis  Underwood.  He  is  the  gentleman  who 
has  had  charge  of  the  place  these  several 
years.  A  very  clever  man,  I  have  no  doubt. 
He  has  done  very  well,  very  well  indeed ; 
better  than  most  men  would  have  done.  Do 
you  know  where  he  will  go  next  year  ?  " 

"  Now,  I  could  n't  tell  you,  really,"  Miss 


264        -     THE   OLD  £  AS  COM  PLACE. 

Sophie  replied,  looking  at  the  Judge  through 
her  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses.  "  He  did  in 
tend  to  go  North  this  fall,  but  he  's  always 
too  busy  to  carry  out  his  intentions." 

"  Yes,"  said  Judge  Bascom  ;  "  I  have  no 
doubt  he  is  a  very  busy  man.  He  has  man 
aged  everything  very  cleverly  here,  and  I 
wish  him  well  wherever  he  goes." 

Miss  Sophie  was  very  glad  when  she 
heard  her  brother's  step  in  the  hall;  not 
that  she  was  nervous  or  easily  frightened, 
but  there  was  something  in  Judge  Bascom's 
actions,  something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
some  suggestion  in  his  words,  that  gave  her 
uneasiness,  and  she  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief 
when  her  stalwart  brother  made  his  appear 
ance. 

Francis  Underwood  greeted  his  guest 
cordially  —  more  cordially,  Miss  Sophie 
thought,  than  circumstances  warranted  ;  but 
the  beautiful  face  of  Mildred  Bascom  was 
not  stamped  on  Miss  Sophie's  mind  as  it  was 
on  her  brother's. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  put  you  to  any  inconven 
ience,"  said  the  Judge,  after  they  had  talked 
for  some   time   on   commonplace    topics  — 
"  very   sorry.     I   have    put   the   matter  off 
until  at  last  I  felt  it  to  be  a  solemn  duty  I 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.  265 

owed  my  family  to  come  here.  Believe  me, 
sir,"  he  continued,  turning  to  the  young  man 
with  some  emotion  —  "believe  me,  sir,  it 
grieves  me  to  trouble  you  in  the  matter,  but 
I  could  no  longer  postpone  coming  here.  1 
think  I  understand  and  appreciate  your  at 
tachment  " 

"  Why,  my  dear  sir,"  cried  Francis  Un 
derwood  in  his  heartiest  manner,  "  it  is  no 
trouble  at  all.  No  one  could  be  more  wel 
come  here.  I  have  often  wondered  why  you 
have  never  called  before.  Don't  talk  about 
trouble  and  inconvenience." 

"I  think  I  understand  and  appreciate 
your  attachment  for  the  Place,"  the  Judge 
went  on  as  though  he  had  not  been  inter 
rupted,  "and  it  embarrasses  me,  I  assure 
you,  to  be  compelled  to  trouble  you  now." 

"  Well,"  said  Francis  Underwood,  with  a 
hospitable  laugh,  "  if  it  is  no  trouble  to  you, 
it  certainly  is  none  to  me.  As  my  neigh 
bors  around  here  say,  when  I  call  on  them, 
'  just  make  yourself  at  home.'  ' 

Judge  Bascom  rose  from  his  chair  trem 
bling.  He  seemed  suddenly  to  be  laboring 
under  the  most  intense  excitement. 

"  My  home  ?  "  he  almost  shrieked  — 
"  make  myself  at  home !  In  God's  name, 


266      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

man,  what  can  you  mean  ?  It  is  my  home  ! 
It  has  always  been  my  home  !  Everything 
here  is  mine  —  every  foot  of  land,  every 
tree,  every  brick  and  stone  and  piece  of 
timber  in  this  house.  It  is  all  mine,  and  I 
will  have  it!  I  have  come  here  to  assert 
my  rights!  " 

He  panted  with  passion  and  excitement 
as  he  looked  from  Francis  Underwood  to 
Miss  Sophie.  He  paused,  as  if  daring  them 
to  dispute  his  claims.  Miss  Sophie,  who 
had  a  temper  of  her  own,  would  have  given 
the  Judge  a  piece  of  her  mind,  but  she  saw 
her  brother  regarding  the  old  man  with  a 
puzzled,  pitying  expression.  Then  the 
truth  flashed  on  her,  and  for  an  instant  she 
felt  like  crying.  Francis  Underwood  ap 
proached  the  Judge  and  led  him  gently 
back  to  his  chair. 

"  Now  that  you  are  at  home,  Judge  Bas- 
com,"  he  said,  "  you  need  not  worry  your 
self." 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  mine  !  "  the  Judge  went 
on,  beating  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  his 
clenched  fist ;  "  it  is  mine.  It  has  always 
been  mine,  and  it  will  always  be  mine." 

Francis  Underwood  stood  before  the  old 
man,  active,  alert,  smiling.  His  sister  said 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.      267 

afterwards  that  she  was  surprised  at  the 
prompt  gentleness  with  which  her  brother 
disposed  of  what  promised  to  be  a  very  disa 
greeable  scene. 

"Judge  Bascom,"  said  the  young  man, 
swinging  himself  around  on  his  boot-heels, 
"  as  your  guest  here,  allow  me  to  suggest 
that  you  ought  to  show  me  over  the  place. 
I  have  been  told  you  have  some  very  fine 
cows  here." 

Immediately  Judge  Bascom  was  himself 
again.  His  old  air  of  dignity  returned,  and 
he  became  in  a  moment  the  affable  host. 

"As  my  guests  here,"  he  said,  smiling 
with  pleasure,  "  you  and  the  lady  are  very 
welcome.  We  keep  open  house  at  the  Bas 
com  Place,  and  we  are  glad  to  have  our 
friends  with  us.  What  we  have  is  yours.  I 
suppose,"  he  went  on,  still  smiling,  "  some 
of  our  neighbors  have  been  joking  about  our 
cows.  We  have  a  good  many  of  them,  but 
they  don't  amount  to  much.  They  have 
been  driven  to  the  pasture  by  this  time,  and 
that  is  on  the  creek  a  mile  and  a  half  from 
here.  I  wonder  where  Wesley  is  !  I  think 
he  is  growing  more  worthless  every  year. 
He  ought  to  be  here  with  my  daughter. 
The  carriage  was  sent  for  her  some  time 
ago." 


268     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

"  I  will  see  if  he  is  in  the  yard,"  said  Un 
derwood,  and  his  sister  followed  him  through 
the  hall. 

"  Mercy  !  "  Miss  Sophie  exclaimed  when 
they  were  out  of  hearing;  "does  the  old 
Judge  purpose  to  swarm  and  settle  down  on 
us  ?  "  She  had  an  economical  turn  of  mind. 
"  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with 
him?" 

"  I  pity  him  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,"  said  Francis  Underwood,  "  but  I  am 
sorrier  for  his  daughter.  Everything  seems 
to  be  blotted  out  of  his  mind  except  the  no 
tion  that  he  is  the  owner  of  this  Place.  We 
must  humor  him,  sister,  and  we  must  be  ten 
der  with  the  daughter.  You  know  how  to 
do  that  much  better  than  I  do." 

Miss  Sophie  frowned  a  little.  The  situa 
tion  was  a  new  and  trying  one,  but  she  had 
been  confronted  with  emergencies  before, 
and  her  experience  and  her  strong  common 
sense  stood  her  in  good  stead  now.  With  a 
woman's  promptness  she  decided  on  a  line 
of  action  at  once  sympathetic  and  effectual. 
The  buggy  was  ordered  out  and  young  Un 
derwood  went  for  a  physician. 

Then,  when  he  had  returned,  Miss  Sophie 
said  he  must  go  for  the  daughter,  and  she 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     269 

cautioned  him,  with  some  severity  of  man 
ner,  as  to  what  he  should  say  and  how  he 
should  deport  himself.  But  at  this  Francis 
Underwood  rebelled.  Ordinarily  he  was  a 
very  agreeable  and  accommodating  young 
fellow,  but  when  his  sister  informed  him 
that  he  must  fetch  Mildred  Bascom  to  her 
father,  he  pulled  off  his  hat  and  scratched 
his  blond  head  in  perplexity. 

"  What  could  I  say,  sister  ? "  he  pro 
tested.  "  How  could  I  explain  the  situa 
tion  ?  No ;  it  is  a  woman's  work,  and  you 
must  go.  It  would  be  a  pretty  come-off  for 
me  to  go  after  this  poor  girl  and  in  a  fit  of 
awkwardness  frighten  her  to  death.  It  is 
bad  enough  as  it  is.  There  is  no  hurry. 
You  shall  have  the  carriage.  It  would 
never  do  for  me  to  go  ;  no  one  but  a  woman 
knows  how  to  be  sympathetic  in  a  matter  of 
this  kind." 

"  I  never  knew  before  that  you  were  so 
bashful,"  said  Miss  Sophie,  regarding  him 
keenly.  "  It  is  a  recent  development." 

"  It  is  not  bashfulness,  sister,"  said  Un 
derwood,  coloring  a  little.  "  It  is  considera 
tion.  How  could  I  explain  matters  to  this 
poor  girl  ?  How  could  I  prevail  on  her  to 
come  here  without  giving  her  an  inkling  of 


270     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

the  situation,  and  thus  frighten  her,  perhaps 
unnecessarily  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Miss  So 
phie,  who,  as  an  experienced  spinster,  was 
not  always  ready  to  make  concessions  of  this 
kind.  "  At  any  rate  I  '11  go  for  Miss  Bas- 
com,  and  I  think  I  can  manage  it  without 
alarming  her  ;  but  the  matter  troubles  me. 
I  hope  the  poor  old  Judge  will  not  be  a 
dangerous  guest." 

"  There  is  not  the  slightest  fear  of  that," 
said  Francis  Underwood.  "He  is  too  fee 
ble  for  that.  When  I  placed  my  hand  on 
his  shoulder  just  now  he  was  all  of  a  trem 
ble.  He  is  no  stronger  than  a  little  child, 
and  no  more  dangerous.  Besides,  the  doc 
tor  is  with  him." 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Sophie  with  a  sigh, 
"I  '11  go.  Women  are  compelled  to  do 
most  of  the  odd  jobs  that  men  are  afraid  to 
take  up ;  but  I  shiver  to  think  of  it.  I 
shall  surely  break  down  when  I  see  that 
poor  child." 

"No,"  said  her  brother,  "you  will  not. 
I  know  you  too  well  for  that.  We  must 
humor  this  old  man,  and  that  will  be  for 
me  to  do;  his  daughter  must  be  left  to 
you." 


THE   OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.  271 


VII. 

ALL  this  was  no  less  the  result  of  Francis 
Underwood's  desire  than  of  the  doctor's  com 
mands.  The  old  practitioner  was  noted  for 
his  skill  throughout  the  region,  and  after  he 
had  talked  with  Judge  Bascom  he  gave  it  as 
his  opinion  that  the  only  physic  necessary  in 
the  case  was  perfect  rest  and  quiet,  and  that 
these  could  be  secured  only  by  allowing  the 
old  man  to  remain  undisturbed  in  the  belief 
that  he  was  once  more  the  owner  of  the  Bas 
com  Place. 

"  He  '11  not  trouble  you  for  long,"  said 
Dr.  Bynum,  wiping  his  spectacles,  "  and 
I  've  no  doubt  that  whatever  expense  may 
be  incurred  will  be  settled  by  his  old 
friends.  Oh,  Bascom  still  has  friends 
here,"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  misunderstand 
ing  Underwood's  gesture  of  protest.  "He 
went  wrong,  badly  wrong ;  but  he  is  a 
Southerner,  sir,  to  the  very  core,  and  in  the 
South  we  are  in  the  habit  of  looking  after 
our  own.  We  may  differ,  sir,  but  when  the 
pinch  comes  you  '11  find  us  together." 

The  doctor's  lofty  air  was  wholly  lost  on 
his  companion. 


272     THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Underwood,  laying 
his  hand  somewhat  heavily  on  the  doctor's 
shoulder,  "  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?  Do 
you  suppose  that  I  intend  to  set  up  a  hospi 
tal  here?" 

"Oh,  by  no  means,  by  no  means,"  said 
Dr.  Bynum,  soothingly.  "  Not  at  all ;  in 
fact,  quite  the  contrary.  As  I  say,  you 
shall  be  reimbursed  for  all "  — 

"  Dr.  Bynum,"  said  Underwood,  with 
some  degree  of  emphasis,  "  permit  me  to  re 
mind  you  that  Judge  Bascom  is  my  guest. 
There  is  no  question  of  money  except  so  far 
as  your  bill  is  concerned,  and  that "  — 

"  Now,  now,  my  dear  boy,"  exclaimed  the 
old  doctor,  holding  up  both  hands  in  a  ges 
ture  of  expostulation,  "  don't,  don't  fly  up ! 
What  is  the  use?  I  was  only  explaining 
matters ;  I  was  only  trying  to  let  you  know 
how  we  Southerners  feel.  You  must  have 
noticed  that  the  poor  old  Judge  has  n't  been 
treated  very  well  since  his  return  here.  His 
best  friends  have  avoided  him.  I  was  only 
trying  to  tell  you  that  they  hold  him  in  high 
esteem,  and  that  they  are  willing  to  do  all 
they  can  for  him." 

"  As  a  Southerner  ?  "  inquired  Under 
wood,  "  or  as  a  man  ?  " 


THE   OLD  B AS  COM  PLACE.  273 

"  Tut,  tut ! "  exclaimed  Dr.  Bynum. 
"  Don't  come  running  at  me  with  your  head 
down  and  your  horns  up.  We  've  no  time 
to  fall  into  a  dispute.  You  look  after  the 
Judge  as  a  Northerner,  and  I  '11  look  after 
him  as  a  Southerner.  His  daughter  must 
come  here.  He  is  very  feeble.  He  has  but 
one  irrational  idea,  and  that  is  that  he  owns 
the  old  Place.  In  every  other  particular 
his  mind  is  sound,  and  he  will  give  you  no 
trouble.  His  idea  must  be  humored,  and 
even  then  the  collapse  will  come  too  soon 
for  that  poor  girl,  his  daughter  —  as  lovely 
a  creature,  sir,  as  you  ever  saw." 

This  statement  was  neither  information 
nor  news  so  far  as  Underwood  was  con 
cerned.  "  If  I  see  her,"  the  old  doctor 
went  on,  with  a  somewhat  patronizing  air, 
"  I  '11  try  to  explain  matters ;  but  it  is  a 
very  delicate  undertaking,  sir  —  very  deli 
cate." 

"No,"  said  Underwood;  "there  will  be 
no  need  for  explanations.  My  sister  will 
go  for  Miss  Bascom,  and  whatever  explana 
tions  may  be  necessary  she  will  make  at  the 
proper  time." 

"An  admirable  arrangement,"  said  Dr. 
Bynum  with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  —  "an 


274  THE   OLD  B AS  COM  PLACE. 

admirable  arrangement  indeed.  Well,  my 
boy,  you  must  do  the  best  you  can,  and  I 
know  that  will  be  all  that  is  necessary.  I 
am  sorry  for  Bascom,  very  sorry,  and  I  'm 
sorrier  for  his  daughter.  I  '11  call  again  to 
night." 

As  Dr.  Bynum  drove  down  the  avenue, 
Underwood  was  much  gratified  to  see  Jesse 
coming  through  the  gate.  The  negro  ap 
peared  to  be  much  perplexed.  He  took  off 
his  hat  as  he  approached  Underwood,  and 
made  a  display  of  politeness  somewhat  un 
usual,  although  he  was  always  polite. 

"  Is  you  seed  Marse  Judge  Bascom  ?  "  he 
inquired. 

"  Yes,"  said  Underwood.  "  He  is  in  the 
house  yonder,  resting  himself.  You  seem 
frightened;  what  is  the  trouble?" 

"Well,  suh,  I  ain't  had  no  such  worri- 
ment  sence  de  Sherman  army  come  'long. 
I  dunner  what  got  inter  Marse  Judge  Bas 
com.  He  been  gwine  on  des  like  yuther 
folks,  settin'  'roun'  en  talkin'  'long  wid  his- 
se'f,  en  den  all  of  er  sudden  he  break  out 
en  shave  en  dress  hisse'f,  en  go  visitin'  whar 
he  ain't  never  been  visitin'  befo'.  I  done 
year  'im  say  p'intedly  dat  he  ain't  never 
gwine  come  yer  les'n  de  Place  b'long  ter 
'im.  Do  he  look  downhearted,  suh  ?  " 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     275 

"  No,"  said  Underwood,  "  I  can't  say  that 
he  does.  He  seems  to  be  very  well  satis 
fied.  He  has  called  several  times  for  Wes 
ley.  I  have  heard  you  called  Jesse,  but 
perhaps  the  Judge  knows  you  as  Wesley. 
There  are  several  negroes  around  here  who 
answer  to  different  names." 

"No,  suh,"  said  Jesse,  scratching  his 
head.  "  I  ain't  never  been  call  Wesley 
sence  I  been  bornded  inter  de  worl'.  Dey 
was  er  nigger  name  Wesley  what  use  ter  go 
'long  wid  Marse  Judge  Bascom  en  wait  on 
'im  when  I  wuz  er  little  boy,  but  Wesley 
done  been  dead  too  long  ago  ter  talk  about. 
I  dunner  what  make  folks's  min'  drop  back 
dat  'a' way.  Look  like  dey  er  sorter  fumblin' 
'roun'  tryin'  fer  ter  ketch  holt  er  sump'n 
ne'r  what  done  been  pulled  up  out'n  reach." 

"  Well,"  said  Underwood,  "  the  Judge  is 
in  the  house.  See  if  he  wants  anything; 
and  if  he  asks  about  his  daughter,  tell  him 
she  will  be  here  directly." 

When  Jesse  went  into  the  house  he  found 
the  Judge  lying  011  a  lounge  in  the  hall. 
His  eyes  were  closed,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
dozing ;  but  Jesse's  movements  aroused 
him. 

"  Ah  !  is  that  you,  Wesley  ?  Where  is 
your  Miss  Mildred  ?  " 


276      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

"  She  comin',  suh ;  she  comin'  right  now." 

"  Very  well,  very  well.  You  must  make 
yourself  at  home  here,"  he  said  to  Francis 
Underwood,  who  had  followed  Jesse.  "  I 
am  somewhat  dilapidated  myself,  but  my 
daughter  will  entertain  you.  Wesley,  I  be 
lieve  I  will  go  to  my  room.  Lend  me  your 
arm." 

"Allow  me  to  assist  you,"  said  Under 
wood  ;  and  so  between  the  two  the  old  man 
was  carried  to  the  room  that  had  been  his 
own  when  the  house  was  his.  It  happened 
to  be  Underwood's  room,  but  that  made  no 
difference.  It  belonged  once  more  to  the 
Judge  in  his  disordered  fancy,  and  thither 
he  went. 

After  a  while  Miss  Sophie  came,  bringing 
Mildred.  Just  how  she  had  explained  mat 
ters  to  the  poor  girl  no  one  ever  knew,  but 
it  must  have  been  in  some  specially  sympa 
thetic  way,  for  when  Francis  Underwood 
assisted  the  ladies  from  the  carriage  Miss 
Bascom  appeared  to  be  the  less  agitated  of 
the  two. 

"The  Judge  is  as  comfortable  as  possi 
ble,"  Underwood  said  cheerily.  "  Jesse  is 
with  him,  and  I  think  he  is  asleep.  His 
nervousness  has  passed  away." 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.  277 

"Oh,  do  you  think  he  is  seriously  ill?" 
exclaimed  Mildred,  clasping  her  hands  to 
gether. 

"Certainly  not,  just  now,"  said  Francis 
Underwood.  "The  doctor  has  been  here, 
and  he  has  gone  away  apparently  satisfied. 
Sister,  do  you  take  charge  of  Miss  Bascom, 
and  show  her  how  to  be  at  home  here." 

And  so  Judge  Bascom  and  his  beautiful 
daughter  were  installed  at  the   old  Place. 
Mildred,    under   the    circumstances,    would 
rather  have   been   elsewhere,  but   she  was 
practically  under  orders.     It  was  necessary 
to  the  well-being  of  her  father,  so  the  doc 
tor  said,  that  he  should  remain  where  he 
was ;  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  be  hu 
mored  in  the  belief  that  he  was  the  owner 
of  the  old  Place.     It  is  only  fair  to  say  that 
Miss    Sophie  Underwood  and  her  brother 
were  more  willing  and  anxious  to  enter  into 
this  scheme  than  Mildred  appeared  to  be. 
She  failed  to  comprehend  the  situation  until 
after  she  had  talked  with  her  father,  and 
then   she  was   in  despair.     Judge  Bascom 
was  the  representative  of   everything  sub 
stantial  and  enduring  in  his  daughter's  ex 
perience,  and   when   she   realized   that   his 
mind  had  been  seized  by  a  vagary  she  re- 


278      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

ceived  a  tremendous  shock.  But  the  rough 
edges  of  the  situation,  so  to  speak,  were 
smoothed  and  turned  by  Miss  Sophie,  who 
assumed  motherly  charge  of  the  young  girl. 
Miss  Sophie's  methods  were  so  sympathetic 
and  so  womanly,  and  she  gave  to  the  situa 
tion  such  a  matter-of-fact  interpretation, 
that  the  grief  and  dismay  of  the  young  girl 
were  not  as  overwhelming  as  they  otherwise 
would  have  been. 


VIII. 

Naturally  all  the  facts  that  have  just  been 
set  down  here  were  soon  known  to  the  in 
habitants  of  Hillsborough.  Naturally,  too, 
something  more  than  the  facts  was  also 
known  and  talked  about.  There  was  the 
good  old  doctor  ready  to  shake  his  head  and 
look  mysterious,  and  there  were  the  negroes 
ready  to  give  out  an  exaggerated  version  of 
the  occurrences  that  followed  Judge  Bas- 
corn's  visit  to  his  old  home. 

"Well,"  said  Major  Jimmy  Bass  to  his 
wife,  with  something  like  a  snort,  "  ef  the 
old  Judge  is  gone  there  an'  took  holt  of 
things,  like  they  say,  it 's  bekaze  he 's  out  'n 
his  mind.  I  wonder  what  in  the  round 
world  could  'a'  possessed  him  ?  " 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     279 

"  I  'spec'  he  's  done  drapt  back  into  bis 
doltage,"  said  Farmer  Joe-Bob  Grissom, 
who  had  gone  to  the  major's  for  the  pur 
pose  of  discussing  the  matter.  "  An'  yit, 
they  do  say  that  he  's  got  a  clean  title  to 
every  bit  of  the  prop'ty,  ef  you  take  into  ac 
count  all  that  talk  about  his  wife's  brother, 
an'  sech  like." 

"  Well,"  remarked  the  major  grimly, 
"  Sarah  there  ain't  got  no  brother,  an'  I 
reckon  I  'ni  sorter  protected  from  them  kind 
of  gwines-on." 

"  Why,  tooby  shore  you  are,"  said  his 
wife,  who  was  the  Sarah  referred  to  ;  "  but 
I  ain't  so  mighty  certain  that  I  would  n't  be 
better  off  if  I  had  a  brother  to  follow  you 
around  where  the  wimmen  folks  can't  go. 
Yon  've  flung  away  many  a  bright  dollar 
that  he  might  have  picked  up." 

"  Who,  Sarah  ? "  inquired  the  major, 
wincing  a  little. 

"  My  brother,"  returned  Mrs.  Bass. 

"  Why,  you  have  n't  got  a  brother,  Sa 
rah,"  said  Major  Bass. 

"  More  's  the  pity,"  exclaimed  the  major's 
wife.  "  I  ought  to  have  had  one,  a  great 
big  double-j'inted  chap.  But  you  need  n't 
tell  me  about  the  old  Judg-e,"  she  went  on. 


280  THE   OLD  B AS  COM  PLACE. 

"He  tried  to  out- Yankee  the  Yankees  up 
yonder  in  Atlanty,  an'  now  he  's  a-trying  to 
out- Yankee  them  down  here.  Lord !  You 
needn't  tell  me  a  thing  about  old  Judge 
Bascom.  Show  me  a  man  that's  been 
wrapped  up  with  the  Radicals,  and  I'll 
show  you  a  man  that  ain't  got  no  better 
sense  than  to  try  to  chousel  somebody.  I  'd 
just  as  lief  see  Underwood  have  the  Bascom 
Place  as  the  old  Judge,  every  bit  and 
grain." 

"  Well,  I  had  n't,"  said  the  major  em 
phatically. 

"  No,  ner  me  nuther,"  said  Mr.  Joe-Bob 
Grissom.  "  Hit  may  be  right,  but  hit  don't 
look  right.  Pap  used  to  say  he  'd  never  be 
happy  ontel  the  Bascoms  come  back  inter 
the'r  prop'ty." 

"  Well,  he  's  dead,  ain't  he  ?  "  inquired 
Mrs.  Bass  in  a  tone  that  showed  she  had  the 
best  of  the  argument. 

"Yessum,"  said  Mr.  Grissom,  shifting 
about  in  his  chair  and  crossing  his  legs,  as 
if  anxious  to  dispose  of  an  unpleasant  sub 
ject,  "  yessum,  pap  's  done  dead."  To  this 
statement,  after  a  somewhat  embarrassing 
silence,  he  added:  "Pap  took  an'  died  a 
long  time  ago." 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     281 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bass  in  a  gentler  tone, 
"  and  I  '11  warrant  you  that  when  he  died  he 
was  n't  pestered  'bout  whether  the  Bascoms 
owned  the  Place  or  not.  Did  he  make  any 
complaints  ?  " 

"  No  'm,"  replied  Mr.  Grissom  in  a  remi 
niscent  way,  "  I  can't  say  that  he  did.  He 
jest  didn't  bother  about  'em.  Hit  looked 
like  they  jest  natchally  slipped  outer  his 
mind."  " 

"  Why,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Bass,  with 
a  little  shake  of  her  head ;  "  they  slipped 
outer  your  pa's  mind,  and  now  they  say  the 
old  Judge  has  slipped  out  of  his  own 
mind." 

"Well,  we  needn't  boast  of  it,  Sarah," 
remarked  the  major,  with  a  feeble  attempt 
at  severity.  "  Nobody  knows  the  day  when 
some  of  us  may  be  twisted  around.  We  've 
no  room  to  brag." 

"  No,  we  ain't,"  said  his  wife,  bridling  up. 
"  I  've  trembled  for  you  a  many  a  day  when 
you  thought  I  was  thinking  about  something 
else,  —  a  many  a  day." 

"  Now  you  know  mighty  well,  Sarah,  that 
no  good-natured  man  like  me  ain't  a-gwine 
to  up  an'  lose  their  mind,  jest  dry  so,"  said 
the  major  earnestly.  "  They  Ve  got  to  have 
some  mighty  big  trouble." 


282      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bass,  grimly,  "  and  they 
have  to  have  mind  too,  I  reckon.  Nobody 
that  never  had  a  horse  ever  lost  one." 

The  major  nodded  his  head  at  Joe-Bob 
Grissom,  as  much  as  to  say  that  it  was  only 
a  very  able  man  who  could  afford  to  have 
such  a  sprightly  wife.  The  mute  sugges 
tion,  however,  was  lost  on  Grissom,  who  was 
accustomed  to  taking  life  seriously. 

"  I  hear  a  mighty  heap  of  talk,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  ain't  never  been  so  mighty  certain 
an'  shore  that  the  old  Judge  is  lost  his 
mind.  There  'd  be  lots  of  fun  ef  it  should 
happen  to  be  that  he  had  the  papers  all 
made  out  in  his  pocket,  an'  I  *ve  hearn  some 
hints  that-a-way." 

"  Well,"  said  the  more  practical  Mrs. 
Bass,  "  he  ain't  got  no  papers.  The  minute 
I  laid  eyes  on  him  after  he  came  back  here, 
I  says  to  Mr.  Bass  there,  '  Mr.  Bass,'  says 
I,  ;  the  old  Judge  has  gone  wrong  in  his  up 
per  story.'  Ah,  you  can't  fool  me.  I  know 
a  tiling  when  I  see  it,  more  especially  if  I 
look  at  it  close.  I  Ve  seen  folks  that  had  to 
rub  the  silver  off  a  thrip  to  tell  whether  it 
was  passable  or  not.  I  might  be  fooled 
about  the  silver  in  a  thrip,  but  you  can't 
fool  me  about  a  grown  man." 


THE   OLD  B  AS  COM  PLACE.  283 

"  Nobody  ain't  tryin'  to  fool  you,  Sarah," 
said  the  major,  with  some  show  of  spirit. 

"Well,  I  reckon  not,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Bass,  somewhat  contemptuously.  "  I  'd  like 
to  see  anybody  try  to  fool  me  right  here  in 
my  own  house  and  right  before  my  face." 

"  There  ain't  no  tellin',"  said  Mr.  Joe- 
Bob  Grissom,  in  his  matter-of-fact  way, 
ignoring  everything  that  had  been  said, 
—  "  there  ain't  no  tellin'  whether  the  old 
Judge  is  got  the  papers  or  not.  'T  would 
be  hard  on  Frank  Underwood  an*  his  sister, 
an'  they  ain't  no  better  folks  than  them. 
They  don't  make  no  fuss  about  it,  an'  they 
don't  hang  out  no  signs,  but  when  you  come 
to  a  narrer  place  in  the  road  where  you 
can't  go  forrerd  nor  back'ards,  an'  nuther 
can  you  turn  'roun',  you  may  jest  count  on 
them  Underwoods.  They  '11  git  you  out  ef 
you  can  be  got  out,  an'  before  you  can  say 
thanky-do,  they  '11  be  away  off  yonder  help- 
in'  some  yuther  poor  creetur." 

"  Well,"  said  Major  Bass,  with  an  air  of 
independence,  "  I  'm  at  the  fust  of  it.  It 
may  be  jest  as  you  say,  Joe-Bob  ;  but  ef  so, 
I  've  never  knowed  it." 

"  Hit 's  jest  like  I  tell  you,"  said  Joe-Bob, 
'emphatically. 


284  THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

"  Well,  the  Lord  love  us !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Bass,  "  I  hope  it  's  so,  I  do  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.  It  would  be  a  mighty 
queer  world  if  it  did  n't  have  some  tender 
spots  in  it,  but  you  need  n't  be  afraid  that 
they  '11  ever  get  as  thick  as  the  measles.  I 
reckon  you  must  be  renting  land  on  the  old 
Bascom  Place,"  she  went  on,  eying  Mr. 
Grissom  somewhat  sharply. 

"Yessum,"  said  Joe-Bob,  moving  about 
uneasily  in  his  chair.  "  Yessum,  I  do." 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Bass  smiled,  and  her 
smile  was  more  significant  than  anything  she 
could  have  said.  It  was  disconcerting  in 
deed,  and  it  was  not  long  before  Mr.  Joe- 
Bob  Grissom  made  some  excuse  for  depriv 
ing  Major  Jimmy  and  Mrs.  Sarah  Bass  of 
his  company. 

As  he  was  passing  the  Bascom  Place  on 
his  way  home  he  saw  lights  in  the  house  and 
heard  voices  on  the  piazza. 

"Ef  it  war  n't  for  that  blamed  dog,"  he 
thought,  "  I  'd  go  up  there  an'  see  what  they 
er  talkin'  about  so  mighty  peart." 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     285 


IX. 


But  Mr.  Grissom's  curiosity  would  not 
have  been  satisfied.  Judge  Bascom  was 
sitting  in  a  large  rocking-chair,  enjoying  the 
pleasant  evening  air,  and  the  others  were 
sitting  near,  talking  on  the  most  ordinary 
topics.  This  situation  was  one  of  the  doc 
tor's  prescriptions,  as  Miss  Sophie  said. 
Those  around  were  to  wear  a  cheerful  air, 
and  the  Judge  Was  to  be  humored  in  the  be 
lief  that  he  was  once  more  the  proprietor  of 
the  Bascom  Place.  He  seemed  to  respond 
to  this  treatment  in  the  most  natural  way. 
The  old  instinct  of  hospitality  rose  in  him 
and  had  its  way.  He  grew  garrulous  in 
deed,  and  sat  on  the  piazza,  or  walked  up 
and  down  and  talked  by  the  hour.  He  was 
full  of  plans  and  projects,  and  some  of  them 
were  so  suggestive  that  Francis  Underwood 
made  a  note  of  them  for  further  considera 
tion.  The  Judge  was  the  genial  host,  and 
while  his  daughter  was  full  of  grief  and  hu 
miliation  at  the  position  in  which  she  was 
placed,  he  appeared  to  draw  new  life  and  in 
spiration  from  his  surroundings.  He  took 
a  great  fancy  to  Miss  Sophie :  her  observa- 


286  THE   OLD  BASCOM-PLACE. 

tions,  which  were  practical  in  the  extreme, 
and  often  unflattering,  were  highly  relished 
by  him.  The  Judge  himself  was  a  good 
talker,  and  he  gave  Miss  Sophie  an  oppor 
tunity  to  vent  some  of  her  pet  opinions,  the 
most  of  which  were  very  pronounced. 

As  for  Mildred,  in  spite  of  her  grief  and 
anxiety,  she  found  her  surroundings  vastly 
more  pleasant  than  she  had  at  first  imagined 
they  could  be.  Some  instinct  or  preposses 
sion  made  her  feel  at  home  in  the  old  house, 
and  as  she  grew  more  cheerful  and  more 
contented  she  grew  more  beautiful  and  more 
engaging.  At  least,  this  was  the  opinion  of 
Francis  Underwood. 

"  Brother,"  said  Miss  Sophie  one  day 
when  they  were  together,  "  you  are  in  love." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  to  say  yes  or  no," 
he  replied.  "  What  is  it  to  be  in  love?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  exclaimed  Miss 
Sophie,  reddening  a  little.  "I  see  you 
mooning  around,  and  moping.  Something 
has  come  over  you,  and  if  it  is  n't  love,  what 
is  it  ?  " 

He  held  up  his  hands,  white  and  muscu 
lar,  and  looked  at  them.  Then  he  took  off 
his  hat  and  tousled  his  hair  in  an  effort  to 
smooth  it  with  his  fingers. 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.      287 

"  It  is  something,"  he  said  after  a  while 
"  but  I  don't  know  what.     Is  love  such  an 
everyday  affair   that    it  can    be   called   by 
name  as  soon  as  it  arrives  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  absurd,  brother,"  said  Miss 
Sophie,  with  a  gesture  of  protest.  "  You 
talk  as  if  you  were  trying  to  take  a  census 
of  the  affair." 

"No,"  said  he;  "I  am  trying  to  get  a 
special  report.  I  saw  Dr.  Bynum  looking 
at  you  over  his  spectacles  yesterday." 

Miss  Sophie  tried  to  show  that  this  sug 
gestion  was  an  irritating  one,  but  she  failed, 
and  then  fell  to  laughing. 

"  I  never  knew  I  was  so  full  of  humor  be 
fore,"  said  Francis  Underwood,  by  way  of 
comment. 

"  And  I  never  knew  you  could  be  so  fool 
ish —  to  me,"  said  Miss  Sophie,  still  laugh 
ing.  "  What  is  Dr.  Bynum  to  me  ?  " 

"  Not  having  his  spectacles  to  look  ovel-, 
how  do  I  know  ?  " 

"  But,"  persisted  Miss  Sophie,  "  you  need 
no  spectacles  to  look  at  Mildred.  I  have 
seen  you  looking  at  her  through  your  fin- 
gers." 

"And  what  was  she  doing?"  inquired 
Underwood,  coloring  in  the  most  surprising 
way. 


288      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Sophie,  "  she  was  pre 
tending  not  to  notice  it ;  but  I  can  sit  with 
my  back  to  you  both  and  tell  by  the  tone  of 
her  voice  when  this  and  that  thing  is  going 
on." 

"  This,  then,  is  courtship,"  said  Under 
wood. 

"  Why;  brother,  how  provoking  you  are !  " 
exclaimed  Miss  Sophie.  "  It  is  nothing  of 
the  sort.  It  is  child's  play  ;  it  is  the  way 
the  youngsters  do  at  school.  I  feel  as  if  I 
never  knew  you  before  ;  you  are  full  of  sur 
prises." 

"I  surprise  myself,"  he  said,  with  some 
thing  like  a  sigh,  "  and  that  is  the  trouble ; 
1  don't  want  to  be  too  surprising." 

"  But  in  war,"  said  his  sister,  "  the  suc 
cessful  general  cannot  be  too  full  of  sur 
prises." 

"  In  war !  "  he  cried.  "  Why,  I  was  in 
hopes  the  war  was  over." 

"  I  was  thinking  about  the  old  saying," 
she  explained  —  "  the  old  saying  that  all  is 
fair  in  love  and  war." 

"Well,"  said  Francis  Underwood,  "it 
would  be  hard  to  say  whether  you  and  Dr. 
Bynum  are  engaged  in  war  or  not.  You 
are  both  very  sly,  but  I  have  seen  a  good 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     289 

deal  of  skirmishing  going  on.  Will  it  end 
in  a  serious  engagement,  with  casualties  on 
both  sides  ?  The  doctor  is  something  of  a 
surgeon,  and  he  can  attend  to  his  own  wounds, 
but  who  is  going  to  look  after  yours  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  go  on  so !  "  cried  Miss  So 
phie,  laughing.  "Are  we  to  have  an  epi 
demic  of  delusions?" 

"Yes,  and  illusions  too,"  said  her  brother. 
"  The  atmosphere  seems  to  be  full  of  them. 
Everything  is  in  a  tangle." 

And  yet  it  was  not  long  after  this  conver 
sation  that  Miss  Sophie  observed  her  brother 
and  Mildred  Bascom  sauntering  together 
under  the  great  cedars,  and  she  concluded 
that  he  was  trying  to  untangle  the  tangle. 

There  were  many  such  walks,  and  the  old 
Judge,  sitting  on  the  piazza  in  bright 
weather,  would  watch  the  handsome  pair, 
apparently  with  a  contented  air.  There  was 
something  about  this  busy  and  practical 
young  man  that  filled  Mildred's  imagination. 
His  individuality  was  prominent  enough  to 
be  tantalizing.  It  was  of  the  dominant  va 
riety.  In  him  the  instinct  of  control  and 
command,  so  pleasing  to  the  feminine 
mind,  was  thoroughly  developed,  and  he  dis 
posed  of  his  affairs  with  a  promptness  and 
decisiveness  that  left  nothing  to  be  desired. 


290      THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE. 

Everything  seemed  to  be  arranged  in  his 
rnind  beforehand. 

Everything,  that  is  to  say,  except  his  rela 
tions  with  Mildred  Bascom.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  detail  of  his  various  enterprises, 
from  the  simplest  to  the  most  complicated, 
with  which  he  was  not  thoroughly  familiar, 
but  this  young  girl,  simple  and  unaffected  as 
she  was,  puzzled  him  sorely.  She  presented 
to  Francis  Underwood's  mind  the  old  prob 
lem  that  is  always  new,  and  that  has  as 
many  phases  as  there  are  stars  in  the  sky. 
Here,  before  his  eyes,  was  a  combination  for 
which  there  was  no  warrant  in  his  experi 
ence  —  the  wit  and  tenderness  of  Rosalind, 
blended  with  the  self-sacrificing  devotion  of 
Cordelia.  Here  was  a  combination  —  a  com 
plication  —  of  a  nature  to  attract  the  young 
man's  attention.  Problem,  puzzle,  what  you 
will,  it  was  a  very  attractive  one  for  him, 
and  he  lost  no  favorable  opportunity  of 
studying  it. 

So  the  pleasant  days  came  and  went.  If 
there  were  any  love  -  passages  between  the 
young  people,  only  the  stately  cedars  or  the 
restless  poplars  were  in  the  secret,  and  these 
told  it  only  to  the  vagrant  west  winds  that 
crept  over  the  hills  when  the  silence  of  night 
fell  over  all  things. 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.     291 


Those  were  pleasant  days  and  nights  at 
the  old  Bascom  Place,  in  spite  of  the  malady 
with  which  the  Judge  was  afflicted.  They 
were  particularly  pleasant  when  he  seemed 
to  be  brighter  and  stronger.  But  one  day, 
when  he  seemed  to  be  at  his  best,  the  begin 
ning  of  the  end  came.  He  was  sitting  on 
the  piazza,  talking  with  his  daughter  and 
with  Francis  Underwood.  Some  reference 
was  made  to  the  Place,  when  the  old  Judge 
suddenly  rose  from  his  chair,  and,  shaking 
his  thin  white  hand  at  the  young  man,  cried 
out : 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  mine !  The  Place  always 
has  been  mine  and  it  always  will  be  mine." 

He  tottered  forward  and  would  have  fall 
en,  but  Underwood  caught  him  and  placed 
him  in  his  chair.  The  old  man's  nerves  had 
lost  their  tension,  his  eyes  their  brightness. 
He  could  only  murmur  indistinctly,  "  Mine, 
mine,  mine."  He  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
shrunk  and  shriveled  away.  His  head  fell  to 
one  side,  his  face  was  deadly  pale,  his  lips  were 
blue,  and  his  thin  hands  clutched  convul 
sively  at  his  clothes  and  at  the  chair.  Mil 
dred  was  at  his  side  instantly,  but  he  seemed 


292  THE   OLD  £  AS  COM  PLACE. 

to  be  beyond  the  reach  of  her  voice  and  be 
yond  the  limits  of  her  grief,  which  was  dis 
tressful  to  behold.  He  tried  indeed  to 
stroke  the  beautiful  hair  that  fell  loosely 
over  him  as  his  daughter  seized  him  in  her 
despairing  arms,  but  it  was  in  a  vague  and 
wandering  way. 

Judge  Bascom's  condition  was  so  alarm 
ing  that  Francis  Underwood  lifted  him  in 
his  arms  and  placed  him  on  the  nearest  bed, 
where  he  lay  gazing  at  the  ceiling,  sometimes 
smiling  and  at  other  times  frowning  and 
crying,  "  Mine,  mine,  mine  !  " 

He  sank  slowly  but  surely.  At  the  last 
he  smiled  and  whispered  "  Home.,"  and  so 
passed  away. 

He  was  indeed  at  home.  He  had  come  to 
the  end  of  his  long  and  tiresome  journey. 
He  smiled  as  he  lay  sleeping,  and  his  rest 
was  pleasant ;  for  there  was  that  in  his  dead 
face,  white  and  pinched  as  it  was,  that  bore 
witness  to  the  infinite  gentleness  and  mercy 
of  Christ,  who  is  the  Lord. 

It  was  an  event  that  touched  the  hearts 
of  his  old  neighbors  and  their  children,  and 
they  spoke  to  one  another  freely  and  feel 
ingly  about  the  virtues  of  the  old  Judge,  the 
beautiful  life  he  had  lived,  the  distinction  he 


THE  OLD  BASCOM  PLACE.      293 

had  won,  and  the  mark  he  had  made  on  his 
generation.  Some,  who  were  old  enough  to 
remember,  told  of  his  charities  in  the  days 
when  prosperity  sat  at  his  board ;  and  in 
discussing  these  things  the  people  gradually 
came  to  realize  the  fact  that  Judge  Bascom, 
in  spite  of  his  misfortunes,  had  shed  lustre 
on  his  State  and  on  the  village  in  which  he 
was  born,  and  that  his  renown  was  based  on 
a  character  so  perfect,  and  on  results  so  just 
and  beneficent,  that  all  could  share  in  it. 

His  old  neighbors,  watching  by  him  as  he 
lay  smiling  in  his  dreamless  sleep,  shortened 
the  long  hours  of  the  night  with  pleasant 
reminiscences  of  the  dead.  Those  who  sat 
near  the  door  could  see,  in  an  adjoining 
room,  Mildred  Bascom  sitting  at  Miss  So 
phie  Underwood's  feet,  her  arms  around  the 
older  woman's  waist.  It  was  a  brief  and 
fleeting  panorama,  as  indeed  life  itself  is, 
but  the  two,  brought  together  by  grief  and 
sympathy,  often  sat  thus  in  the  years  that 
followed.  For  Mildred  Bascom  became  the 
mistress  of  the  Bascom  Place ;  and  although 
she  has  changed  her  name,  the  old  name 
still  clings  to  Underwood's  domain. 


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